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THE COMPLETE 

POETICAL WORKS OF 

SIR WALTER SCOTT 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
1912 






COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO. 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



e-^/ 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Sir Walter Scott came of a family of Scotch geDtlemen. One of his ances- 
tors, six generations before him, whose name also was Walter Scott, is celebrated 
in '' The Lay of the Last Minstrel " ; and his grandfather, Robert Scott, is de- 
scribed in the poetical introduction to ^'Marmion," the third canto. Sir Walter's 
father, who was a successful solicitor in Edinburgh, was the first man " of the great 
riding and sporting and fighting clan to adopt a town life and a sedentary profes- 
sion." It was in Edinburgh that Sir Walter, the ninth of twelve children, was born 
on August 15, 1771, precisely two yeajs, (as the date has usually been fixed) after 
the birth of Napoleon, whose life he wrote ; a piece of literary work that was done 
for profit that brought a large sum, and that has long ago been forgotten. Several 
more or less important dates in English literature fall near this time. During 
this very year, 1771, Gray died ; the next year Coleridge was born, and the year 
thereafter Goldsmith died. Dr. Johnson lived thirteen years after Scott's birth, 
and Byron was his contemporary, although he was seventeen years younger. The 
three great Scotchmen of our literature were alive at the same time, for a brief 
period; for Carlyle was born the year before Burns died, and Scott was then 
twenty-five years old. 

In his early childhood, Scott was left lame by a fever which, as he said, rather 
disfigured than disabled him ; for, in spite of his lameness, he became a very robust 
man, and he was exceedingly handsome. During the weakly period of his child- 
hood he was sent to his grandfather's, where he lived much in the open air and 
much alone. Since he was five years old, he once said, a troop of horse had been 
exercising in his head ; and at a very early time he took the keenest delight in the 
ballads of border warfare — in all sorts of brave tales, indeed. He was thirteen 
when he first saw a copy of the collection of ballads called Percy's '^ Reliques of 
Ancient Poetry." " I remember well the spot," he wrote many years afterwards, 
" where I read these volumes for the first time." He forgot the hour for dinner 
and " was sought for with anxiety." He stored them in his memory and was 
never tired of declaiming them, and he confesses that he never read any other 
book so frequently or with such enthusiasm. 

During his youth his studies were pursued somewhat irregularly. Late in life 
he read in a volume of anecdotes that he had been distinguished at school *' as an 
absolute dunce " ; and he wrote in a footnote to his autobiography, '^ I was never 
a dunce, nor thought to be so, but an incorrigibly idle imp who was always long- 
ing to do something else than what was enjoined him." But so far was he from 
idleness in fact that his feats of endurance, both in sport and in work, were extra- 
ordinary. He took such long tramps to visit historic places and scenes of legends 
in adjacent counties that his father once reproached him with being better fitted 



iv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

for a pedler than a lawyer. He sometimes did fourteen or fifteen hours* contin- 
uous work at copying law papers, without an interval for food or rest. No boy or 
man was ever more industrious. But the irregularity of some of his studies he 
afterwards deeply regretted. 

He was trained to the law in his father's office and in the law classes at the 
University, and for fourteen years he was nominally a practitioner. But his fond- 
ness for literature was so much greater than his liking for the law that he never 
gave himself very seriously to its practice, and he finally abandoned it. He began 
his literary career by translations from the German, and published a small volume 
of them when he was twenty-five years old. It was not until 1802 that any con- 
siderable original work by him appeared ; this was '^ The Minstrelsy of the Scot- 
tish Border," for which he had long been collecting material. It gave him at 
once a literary reputation. 

In the meantime Scott had married — in 1797, at the age of twenty-six — and 
had gone to live at a country place called Lass wade, about six miles from Edinburgh, 
where he took great joy in the country life. Later, he went to live at Ashestiel, 
seven miles from Selkirk, having received the appointment as sheriff of Selkirk- 
shire, a permanent post which brought an income of £300 a year. At Ashestiel, 
he was known as " the hardest worker and the heartiest player in the kingdom." 
Here he did the great work on which his fame as a poet rests. He rose at five ; 
he was at his desk at six, with one of his dogs for companionship ; and by break- 
fast he had " broken the neck of the day's work." After two or three hours more 
of writing, he was done for the day, and he was his " own man." Then came 
dinner, and by one o'clock he was on his horse. Thus he lived and worked and 
played eight years ; and, besides a vast amount of other literary work, he produced 
his three great poems, " The Lay of the Last Minstrel " (1805), " Marmion " 
(1808), and " The Lady of the Lake " (1810). These gave him a well-established 
fame and a deal of money to boot. 

" If there be anything good about my poetry or my prose either," he wrote 
afterwards, "it is a hurried frankness of composition, which pleases soldiers, sailors, 
and young people of bold and active dispositions." Many pleasant stories are told 
that show how passages from his poems ring in such men's memories. Mr. R. H. 
Hutton, in his short biography of Scott, tells of two old men, strangers to one 
another, who met one dark night on a street in London. One was repeating to 
himself a famous passage from " Marmion," '' Charge, Chester, charge," and the 
other replied out of the darkness, " On, Stanley, on." They repeated the rest in 
unison, took off their hats to one another, and parted. 

In 1812, Scott carried out a plan that he had long had in mind, and bought 
an estate not far from Ashestiel, which he named Abbotsford ; thereafter this was 
his home. He was now settled for life ; his reputation as a poet and as " the 
heartiest player in the kingdom " was well established ; he had been appointed clerk 
of the Court of Session at Edinburgh, another permanent and honorable post which 
later added to his income. He was forty-three years old ; and, judging by most 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



other literary careers, it seemed unlikely that he would do work of any very dif- 
ferent kind from the kind that he had hitherto done. But now came one of the 
most interesting events in our literary history. He took up the unfinished manu- 
script of a novel that he had begun nine years before ; while he was in Edinburgh 
in attendance on the court, he wrote the conclusion of it. One day while he was 
thus engaged there was a party of young men at dinner in a house across the 
street from Scott's house. Through the windows they could see his hand while 
he was writing. " Since we sat down," said one of them, " I have been watching 
it ; it fascinates my eye ; it never stops ; page after page is finished and thrown 
on the heap of manuscript, and still it goes on unwearied ; and so it will be till 
candles are brought in, and God knows how long after that. It is the same every 
night." Some one of the company suggested that perhaps it was the hand of an 
engrossing clerk. "No, boys," said the host; "I know well what hand it is; 
't is Walter Scott's." The story that he was writing was " Waverley," and, when 
it was published, in 1814, a new period in Scott's career began, and a new period in 
English literature as well. 

" Waverley" was his first novel. It was published anonymously, and the secret 
of its authorship was kept for a long time. It was the most successful novel that 
had up to that time ever been published. With the same rapidity the other 
Waverley novels were written — "Guy Mannering" in 1815; " The Antiquary," 
"The Black Dwarf " and " Old Mortality " in 1816; " Rob Roy" in 1817 ; " The 
Heart of Midlothian " in 1818 ; " The Bride of Lammermoor " and " A Legend 
of Montrose" in 1819, — "faster written and better paid for than any other books 
in the world," says Carlyle. Indeed, in fourteen years Scott wrote twenty-three 
novels, besides shorter tales. 

In 1819 came " Ivanhoe," which was the first of Sir Walter's novels — for in this 
year he was knighted — that had to do with English scenes and English characters. 
" Scottish manners, Scottish dialect, and Scottish characters of note," he wrote in 
his preface, " being those with which the author was most intimately and famil- 
iarly acquainted, were the groundwork upon which he had hitherto relied for giv- 
ing effect to his narrative." After " Ivanhoe " in rapid succession came the other 
novels,— "The Monastery," "The Abbot," " Kenil worth," " The Pirate," "The 
Fortunes of Nigel," "Peverilof the Peak," "Quentin Durward," "St. Ronan's 
Well," " Redgauntlet," "The Betrothed," "The Talisman," "Woodstock," "The 
Fair Maid of Perth," and (in his broken health) " Anne of Geierstein," " Count 
Robert of Paris," and " Castle Dangerous," besides other books than novels. 

Many years before the appearance of any of Sir Walter's novels, he had be- 
come a silent partner of the publishing firm of James Ballantyne and Company of 
Edinburgh. In fact, he had contributed nearly all the money that the firm had, 
and Ballantyne was at first hardly more than his agent. He was a partner in a 
similar way in the book-selling firm of John Ballantyne and Company. The affairs 
of both firms were ill-conducted, and in 1826, bankruptcy overtook them and their 
debts were enormous. When this failure came, Sir Walter was the master of one 



VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



of the most notable homes in the world. He had bought farm after farm at 
Abbotsford, and he had added to the house till it had become a great castle 
Feople made pilgi-images to it from all parts of the earth, and there was no literary 
man hvmg, except Goethe in Germany, who enjoyed any such renown. It was at 
this crowning time in his career that the definite news came, in 1826 that the 
debts which It feU to him to pay were far greater than the value of all his estate 
At the same time Lady Scott was ill, and soon afterwards she died. 

And now Sir Walter gave proof of the stuff that he was made of, and added 
another brave chapter to literary history. A little while after the faUure, he wrote 
in his diary, " It is odd, when I set myself to work doggedly, as Dr. Johnson would 
say, I am exactly the same man as I ever was, neither low-spirited nor distrait. 
In prosperous times I have sometimes felt my fancy and powers lag, but adversity 
IS to me at least a tonic and a bracer." In this spirit he kept at work with his 
old industry, and finished " Woodstock," which he then had in hand, in an incred- 
ibly short time. It brought him £ 8,228, for less than three months' work ; and 
Tac. Sa" "l,^'^!'°^P^.^'t'^ " ^^'"^ght £ 18>000. In two years he earned as much as 

ii?Ann; X. .""^ ' "^^"^^ ''^'■^^^ ^^ •' "^°"g^* t° ^'^^e earned as much as 
i 140,000 by his pen. But the debts were too great to be paid during his life 
By five years' work he paid half of them, and the balance was paid after his death 
from the earnings of his copyrights. 

At a time when he was yet in his vigor, Sir Walter recalled the ages of his 
father and his grandfather, and made this note in his diary : " Square the odds 
and good night, Sir Walter, about sixty. I care not, if I leave my name unstained 
and my family property settled." His name he did leave unstained, and he lived 
somewhat longer than his calculation. But the last year of his life was a year of 
rapid decline. He was stricken with paralysis, and the first stroke was followed 
by a second. Then he was persuaded to make a journey to Italy. But the jour- 
ney did not restore his health, and the next year he came home to die. During 
the latter part of the journey homeward he was unconscious ; but when he saw 
the towers of Abbotsford, " he sprang up with a cry of delight," and it was with 
difficulty that he was kept in the carriage. When his secretary, Laidlaw met 
him, he exclaimed, " Ha ! Willie Laidlaw ! O, man, how often I have thought 
of you ! " He lived for some time after his return, unconscious, except during 
one brief period, and he died September 21, 1832. 




TABLE OF CONTENTS 



TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN 
OF BtJRGER. 
William and Helen. . , o 1 
The Wild Huntsman ... 6 

EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS. 

The Violet 7 

To A Lady with Flowers from a 

Roman Wall .... 8 
The Erl-King, from the German 

OF Goethe 8 

War-Song of the Royal Edinburgh 

Light Dragoons .... 9 
Song from 'Goetz von Berlich- 

ingen' 9 

Songs from ' The House of Aspen.' 
I. 'Joy to the victors, the 

sons of old Aspen ' . .10 
II. * Sweet shone the sun on 

THE fair lake OF TORO ' . 10 

III. Rhein-Wein Lied . . 11 
Glenfinlas, or Lord Ronald's 

Coronach 11 

The Eve of St. John ... 14 
The Gray Brother . . . .17 
The Fire-King .... 19 
Bothwell Castle . . . .22 
The Shepherd's Tale ... 23 

Cheviot 25 

Frederick and Alice ... 25 
Cadyow Castle . . . . .26 
The Reiver's Wedding . . 29 

Christie's Will 30 

Thomas the Rhymer ... 32 
The Bard's Incantation . . 37 
Hellvellyn 37 

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 

Introductory Note . . . .39 

Introduction 46 

Canto First 47 

Canto Second 51 

Canto Third 57 

Canto Fourth 61 

Canto Fifth 68 



Canto Sixth 74 

MARMION: A TALE OF FLODDEN 
FIELD. 
Introductory Note . . . .81 
Introduction to Canto First . 88 
Canto First : The Castle . . 91 
Introduction to Canto Second . 97 
Canto Second: The Convent . 100 
Introduction to Canto Third . 106 
Canto Third : The Hostel, or Inn 109 
Introduction to Canto Fourth . 115 
Canto Fourth: The Camp . . 117 
Introduction to Canto Fifth . 124 
Canto Fifth : The Court . . 126 
Introduction to Canto Sixth . 137 
Canto Sixth: The Battle . . 140 
L'Envoy 151 

THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 

Introductory Note . . . 152 

Canto First : The Chase . . 156 

Canto Second : The Island . 164 

Canto Third: The Gathering . 173 

Canto Fourth : The Prophecy . 181 

Canto Fifth: The Combat . . 190 

Canto Sixth: The Guard-Room . 199 

THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 

Introductory Note .... 208 

Introduction 210 

The Vision of Don Roderick . 212 
Conclusion 223 

ROKEBY. 

Introductory Note .... 226 

Canto First 231 

Canto Second 239 

Canto Third 246 

Canto Fourth 255 

Canto Fifth 263 

Canto Sixth 273 

THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 

Introductory Note .... 2S3 
Introduction 287 



VIU 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Canto First 288 

Canto Second 293 

Introduction to Canto Third . 301 

Canto Third 302 

Conclusion 311 

THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 

Introductory Note .... 312 

Canto First 313 

Canto Second 320 

Canto Third 327 

Canto Fourth 335 

Canto Fifth 343 

Canto Sixth 351 

Conclusion 361 

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 

Introductory Note . . . 362 
The Field of Waterloo . . . 363 
Conclusion 368 

HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 

Introductory Note .... 369 

Introduction 370 

Canto First 371 

Canto Second 376 

Canto Third 380 

Canto Fourth 384 

Canto Fifth 389 

Canto Sixth 393 

Conclusion 398 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Dying Bard .... 399 
The Norman Horse-Shoe . . 399 
The Maid of Toro ... 400 

The Palmer 400 

The Maid of Neidpath . . 401 
Wandering Willie .... 401 
Health to Lord Melville . . 402 

Hunting Song 403 

Song : ' O, say not, my Love ' . 404 
The Resolve . . . . . 404 
Epitaph designed for a Monument 
IN Lichfield Cathedral, at the 
Burial-Place of the Family of 

Miss Seward 405 

Prologue to Miss Baillie's Play 

OF * The Family Legend ' . . 405 
The Poacher .... 406 

The Bold Dragoon ; or. The Plain 

OF Badajos 408 

On the Massacre of Glencoe . 409 
Song for the Anniversary Meet- 
ing OF the Pitt Club of Scot- 
land 409 

Lines addressed to Ranald Mac- 
don ald, Esq., of Staffa . . 410 



Pharos Loquitur .... 410 
Letter in Verse on the Voyage 
WITH THE Commissioners of 
Northern Lights. 
To His Grace the Duke of 

buccleuch 411 

postscriptuivi .... 412 
Songs and Verses from Waverley. 
I. ' And did ye not hear of a 

MIRTH befell' 

II. ' Late when the autumn 

EVENING FELL ' . 

ni. ' The knight 's to the 

mountain' 
IV. ' It 's UP Glembarchan's 

BRAES I GAED ' . 

V. ' Hie away, hie away ' 
VI. St. S within' s Chair 
VII. ' Young men will love thee 

MORE FAIR and MORE FAST ' 415 

VIII. Flora MacIvor's Song 
IX. To AN Oak Tree . 
X. 'We are bound to drive 

THE bullocks' . 

XI. 'But follow, follow me' 418 
For a' That an' a' That . . 418 
Farewell to Mackenzie, High 

Chief of Kintail .... 419 
Imitation of the Preceding Song 419 
War.Song of Lachlan, High Chief 

of Maclean 420 

Saint Cloud 420 

The Dance of Death . . . 421 
Romance of Dunois . . . 423 
The Troubadour .... 423 
' It chanced that Cupid on a sea- 
son' . .... 423 
Song on the Lifting of the Ban- 
ner OF the House of Buccleuch 
at a great Football Match on 

Carterhaugh 424 

Songs from Guy Mannering. 

I. ' Canny moment, lucky fit ' . 424 
II. ' Twist ye, twine ye ! even so ' 425 
III. ' Wasted, weary, wherefore 



413 

414 

414 

414 
414 
415 



416 

417 

418 



425 
425 
425 
425 
426 
427 



STAY ' . . . . 

IV. ' Dark shall be light ' 
Lullaby of an Infant Chief 
The Return to Ulster . 
Jock of Hazeldean 
Pibroch of Donald Dehj 

Nora's Vow 427 

MacGregor's Gathering . . 428 
Verses sung at the dinner given 
TO THE Grand Duke Nicholas of 
Russia and his Suite, 19th De- 
cember, 1816 428 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Verses from The Antiquary. 




Verses from The Monastery. 


I. ' He came, but valor had so 




I. Answer to Introductory 


FIRED HIS EYE ' . . . 


429 


Epistle 453 


II. ' Why sit' ST thou by that 




II. Border Song . . .453 


RUINED hall' 


429 


III. Songs of the White Lady 


III. Epitaph 


429 


of Avenel . . . .453 


IV. * The herring loves the 




IV. To THE Sub-Prior . . 454 


MERRY MOON-LIGHT ' 


429 


V. Halbert's Incantation . 455 


Verses from Old Mortality. 




VI. To Halbert . . . .455 


I. 'And what though winter 




VII. To THE Same ... 456 


WILL PINCH SEVERE ' . 


430 


VIII. To THE Same . . .458 


II, Verses found, with a lock 




IX. To Mary Avenel . . 458 


of hair, in Bothwell's 




X. To Edward Glendinning . 458 


POCKETBOOK 


430 


XI. The White Lady's Fare- 


III. Epitaph on Balfour of Bur- 




well 458 


ley 


430 


Goldthred's Song from Kenil- 


The Search after Happiness 


431 


WORTH 459 


Lines written for Miss Smith . 


436 


Verses from The Pirate. 


Mr. Kemble's Farewell Address 




I. The Song of the Tempest 459 


ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDIN- 




II. Halcro's Song ... 460 


BURGH Stage 


436 


III. Song of Harold Harfager 460 


The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill 437 


IV. Song of the Mermaids and 


Song from Rob tloY 


438 


Mermen 461 


The Monks of Bangor's March . 


438 


V. Norna's Verses . . 461 


Epilogue to 'The Appeal' 


439 


VI. Halcro and Norna . . 462 


Mackrimmon's Lament . 


439 


VII. The Fishermen's Song . 463 


Donald Caird's Come Again 


440 


VIII. Cleveland's Songs . . 464 


Madge Wildfire's Songs 


440 


IX. Halcro's Verses . . 464 


The Battle of Sempach 


442 


X. Norna's Incantations . 465 


The Noble Moringer 


444 


XI. The Same, at the Meeting 


Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine . 


447 


WITH Minna ... 465 


Songs from The Bride of Lammer- 




XII. Bryce Snailsfoot's Adver- 


MOOR. 




tisement .... 467 


I. ' Look not thou on beauty's 




'On Ettrick Forest's Mountains 


CHARMING ' . . . . 


448 


Dun' 467 


II. * The monk must arise when 




The Maid of Isla . . . .467 


THE MATINS RING ' 


448 


Farewell to the Muse . . 467 


III. 'When the last laird of 




Nigel's Initiation at Whitefriars 468 


Ravenswood to Ravens- 




' Carle, now the King 's Come ' . 469 


wood SHALL ride' 


448 


The Bannatyne Club . . .471 


Songs from The Legend of Mont- 




County Guy 472 


rose. 




Epilogue to the Drama founded 


I. Ancient Gaelic Melody 


448 


ON ' Saint Ronan's Well ' . 472 


11. The Orphan Maid 


449 


Epilogue 473 


Verses from Ivanhoe. 




Verses from Redgauntlet. 


I. The Crusader's Return . 


449 


I. A Catch OF Cowley's Altered 473 


II. The Barefooted Friar . 


450 


II. ' As Lords their laborers' 


III. 'Norman saw on English 




HIRE delay' .... 474 


oak' 


450 


Lines addressed to Monsieur 


IV. War-Song .... 


450 


Alexandre, the celebrated 


V. Rebecca's Hymn . 


451 


VENTRILOQUIST 474 


VI. The Black Knight and 




To J. G. Lockhart, Esq., on the 


Wamba .... 


452 


Composition of Maida's Epitaph 474 


VII. Another Carol by the 




Songs from The Betrothed. 


Same 


452 


I. ' Soldier, wake I ' . . . 47(» 


VIII. Funeral Hymn 


453 


II. Woman's Faith . . . i7(; 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



3 



III. * I ASKED OF MY HARP ' . . 47(3 

rV. ' Widowed wife asd wedded 

maid' 477 

Verses fbom The Talisman. 

I. * Dark Ahriman, whom Irak 

srrLii' 477 

II. 'What brave chief shakl 

HEAD THE FORCES ' . . 477 

III. The Bloody Vest . . .478 
Verses from Woodstock. 

I. ' By pathless march, by 

GREENWOOD tree' . . 480 

II. Glee for King Charles . 480 

III. ' As HOUR with thee ' . 480 

IV. ' Son OF a witch ' . . .480 
liiNES TO Sir Cuthbert Sharp . 480 
Verses from Chro>t[cles of the 

Canongate. 

I. Old Song 481 

II. The Lay of Poor Louise . 481 
III. Death Chant . . . .481 
rV. Song of the Glee-Maiden 482 



The Death of Keeldar . . . 482 
The Secret Tribunal . . . 483 

The Foray 484 

Inscription for the Monument of 

THE Rev. George Scott . . 484 
Songs from The Doom of Devor- 

GOIL. 

I. ' The Sun upon the Lake ' . 484 
II. ' We loye the shrill trump- 
et' 485 

III. 'Admire not that I gained 

the prize ' . . . . 485 

TV, ' When the tempest ' . 485 

V. BoN-NY Dundee . . . 485 

VI. 'When friends are met'. 486 

' Hither we come ' . . . . 487 

The Death of Don Pedro . . 487 

Lines on Fortunt: .... 487 



glossary . . . . 
index of first lines 
lndex of titles . 



491 
495 

498 



TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER 



The first publication by Scott was a transla- 
tion or imitation of two German ballads, and 
bore the following title-pag-e : ' The Chase and 
W1LLLA.M AND Helen. Two Ballads from the 
German of Gottfried Augustus Burger, Edin- 
burgh: Printed by Mundell and Son, Koyal 
Bank Close, for Manners and Miller, Parlia- 
ment Square ; and sold by T. Cadell, junr, and 
W. Davies, in the Strand, London, 1796.' It 
was a thin quarto, and, as seen, did not bear 
the name of the translator. Scott owed his 
copy of Burger's works to the daughter of the 
Saxon Ambassador at the court of St. James, 
who had married his kinsman, Mr. Scott of 
Harden. She interested herself in his German 
studies and lent him aid in correcting his ver- 
sions. But the immediate occasion of his trans- 
lating Burger was the interest excited in the 
autumn of 1795 by the reading of William 
Taylor's unpublished version of Biirger's Le- 
nor4, at a party at Dugald Stewart's, by Mrs. 
Barbauld, then on a visit to Edinburgh. Scott 
was not present at the reading, but one of his 
friends who heard it, told him the story, and 
repeated the chorus, — 

' Tramp ! tramp ! across the land they speede, 

Splash ! splash ! across the sea ; 
Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ! 
Dost fear to ride with me ? ' 

Scott eagerly laid hold of the original and be- 
ginning the task after supper did not go to bed 
till he had finished it, a good illustration of the 
impetuosity of his literary labor his life long. 

The ballad of The Wild Huntsman {Wilde 
Jdger) Scott appears to have written to accom- 



pany the other ballad for the little volume. 
The book attracted some attention in Edin- 
burgh, where the author was known, but his 
friends were disappointed that it received 
slight notice in London, but translations of Xe- 
nore^ which had caught the public ear, were 
abundant enough to keep in tolerable obscurity 
any single one of them. ' My adventure,' Scott 
wrote thirty-six years later, when he was fa- 
mous, ' where so many pushed off to sea, 
proved a dead loss, and a great part of the edi- 
tion was condemned to the service of the trunk- 
maker. This failure did not operate in any 
unpleasant degree either on my feelings or 
spirits. I was coldly received by strangers, but 
my reputation began rather to increase among 
my own friends, and on the whole I was more 
bent to show the world that it had neglected 
something worth notice, than to be affronted 
by its indifference ; or rather, to speak candidly, 
I found pleasure in the literary labors in which 
I had almost by accident become engaged, 
and labored less in the hope of pleasing others, 
though certainly without despair of doing so, 
than in a pursuit of a new and agreeable amuse- 
ment to myself.' And this may be taken as 
the most significant element in Scott's first lit- 
erary venture, made when he was twenty-five 
years of age, and fairly started in the practice of 
law. One other interesting fact connected with 
the little volume is that James Ballantyne, 
with whom Scott was to have such momentous 
relations, reprinted it, at Scott's suggestion, a 
little enlarged, three years later, in order to 
show Edinburgh society how well he could 
print. 



WILLIAM AND HELEN 

From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, 

And eyed the dawning red : 
* Alas, my love, thou tarriest long ! 

O art thou false or dead ? ' 

With gallant Frederick's princely power 
He sought the bold Crusade, 



But not a word from Judah's wars 
Told Helen how he sped. 

With Paynim and with Saracen 

At length a truce was made, : 

And every knight returned to dry 
The tears his love had shed. 

Our gallant host was homeward bound 
With many a song of joy ; 



TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER 



Green waved the laurel in each plume, 
The badge of victory. 

And old and young, and sire and son, 
To meet them crowd the way, 

With shouts and mirth and melody, 
The debt of love to pay. 

Full many a maid her true-love met, 
And sobbed in his embrace. 

And fluttering joy in tears and smiles 
Arrayed full many a face. 

Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad. 
She sought the host in vain ; 

For none could tell her William's fate, 
If faithless or if slain. 

The martial band is past and gone ; 

She rends her raven hair. 
And in distraction's bitter mood 

She weeps with wild despair. 

* O, rise, my child,' her mother said, 

* Nor sorrow thus in vain ; 
A perjured lover's fleeting heart 
No tears recall again.' 

* O mother, what is gone is gone. 

What 's lost forever lorn : 
Death, death alone can comfort me ; 
O had I ne'er been born ! 

' O, break, my heart, O, break at once ! 

Drink my life-blood. Despair ! 
No joy remains on earth for me, 

For me in heaven no share.' 

* O, enter not in judgment. Lord ! ' 

The pious mother prays ; 
' Impute not guilt to thy frail child ! 
She knows not what she says. 

* O, say thy pater-noster, child ! 

O, turn to God and grace ! 
His will, that turned thy bliss to bale, 
Can change thy bale to bliss.' 

* O mother, mother, what is bliss ? 

O mother, what is bale ? 
My William's love was heaven on earth. 
Without it earth is hell. 

' Why should I pray to ruthless Heaven, 
Since my loved William 's slain ? 



30 



40 



60:1 



I only prayed for William's sake. 
And all my prayers were vain.' 

* O, take the sacrament, my child. 

And check these tears that flow ; 
By resignation's humble prayer, 
O, hallowed be thy woe I ' 

* No sacrament can quench this fire, 

Or slake this scorching pain ; 
No sacrament can bid the dead 
Arise and live again. 

* O, break, my heart, O, break at once ! 

Be thou my god, Despair ! 70 

Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me. 
And vain each fruitless prayer.' 

* O, enter not in judgment. Lord, 

With thy frail child of clay ! 
She knows not what her tongue has spoke • 
Impute it not, I pray ! ' 

* Forbear, my child, this desperate woe, 

And turn to God and grace ; 
Well can devotion's heavenly glow 

Convert thy bale to bliss.' 80 

* O mother, mother, what is bliss ? 

O mother, what is bale ? 
Without my William what were heaven. 
Or with him what were hell ? ' 

Wild she arraigns the eternal doom, 

Upbraids each sacred power. 
Till, spent, she sought her silent room, 

All in the lonely tower. 

She beat her breast, she wrung her hands, 
Till sun and day were o'er, Jo 

And through the glimmering lattice shone 
The twinkling of the star. 

Then, crash ! the heavy drawbridge fell 

That o'er the moat was hung ; 
And, clatter ! clatter ! on its boards 

The hoof of courser rung. 

The clank of echoing steel was heard 

As off the rider bounded ; 
And slowly on the winding stair 

A heavy footstep sounded. 100 

And hark ! and hark ! a knock — tap ! tap ! 
A rustling stifled noise ; — 



WILLIAM AND HELEN 



Door-latch and tinkling staples ring ; — 
At length a whispering voice. 

* Awake, awake, arise, my love ! 

How, Helen, dost thou fare ? 
Wak'st thou, or sleep'st ? laugh'st thou, or 
weep'st ? 
Hast thought on me, my fair ? ' 

* My love ! my love ! — so late by night ! — 

I waked, I wept for thee : no 

Much have I borne since dawn of morn ; 
Where, William, couldst thou be ? ' 

* We saddle late — from Hungary 

I rode since darkness fell ; 
And to its bourne we both return 
Before the matin-bell.' 

* O, rest this night within my arms, 

And warm thee in their fold ! 
Chill howls through hawthorn bush the 
wind : — 
My love is deadly cold.' 120 

' Let the wind howl through hawthorn bush ! 

This night we must away ; 
The steed is wight, the spur is bright ; 

I cannot stay till day. 

' Busk, busk, and boune ! Thou mount'st 
behind 

Upon my black barb steed : 
O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles, 

We haste to bridal bed.' 

* To-night — to-night a hundred miles ! — 

O dearest William, stay ! 130 

The bell strikes twelve — dark, dismal hour! 
O, wait, my love, till day ! ' 

* Look here, look here — the moon shines 

clear — 
Full fast I ween we ride ; 
Mount and away ! for ere the day 
We reach our bridal bed. 

* The black barb snorts, the bridle rings ; 

Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee ! 
The feast is made, the chamber spread. 
The bridal guests await thee.' 140 

Strong love prevailed : she busks, she 
bounes, 
She mounts the barb behind. 



And round her darling William's waist 
Her lily arms she twined. 

And, hurry ! hurry ! off they rode, 

As fast as fast might be ; 
Spurned from the courser's thundering 
heels 
The flashing pebbles flee. 

And on the right and on the left. 

Ere they could snatch a view, 150 

Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain. 
And cot and castle flew. 

^ Sit fast — dost fear ? — The moon shines 
clear — 
Fleet goes my barb — keep hold ! 
Fear'st thou ? ' — < O no ! ' she faintly 
said ; 
* But why so stern and cold ? 

* What yonder rings ? what yonder sings ? 

Why shrieks the owlet gray ? ' 

* 'T is death-bells' clang, 't is funeral song. 

The body to the clay. 160 

* With song and clang at morrow's dawn 

Ye may inter the dead : * 
To-night I ride with my young bride 
To deck our bridal bed. 

* Come with thy choir, thou coffined guest, 

To swell our nuptial song ! 
Come, priest, to bless our marriage feast I 
Come all, come all along ! ' 

Ceased clang and song ; down sunk the 
bier ; 

The shrouded corpse arose : 170 

And hurry ! hurry ! all the train 

The thundering steed pursues. 

And forward ! forward ! on they go ; 

Higli snorts the straining steed ; 
Thick pants the rider's laboring breath, 

As headlong on they speed. 

* O William, why this savage haste ? 

And where thy bridal bed ? ' 
' 'T is distant far, low, damp, and chill, 
And narrow, trustless maid.' iSo 

* No room for me ? ' — * Enough for 

both ; — 
Speed, speed, my barb, thy course ! ' 



TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER 



O'er thundering bridge, through boiling 
surge, 
He drove the furious horse. 

Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode, 
Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 

The scourge is wight, the spur is bright. 
The flashing pebbles flee. 



Fled past on right and left how fast 
Each forest, grove, and bower ! 

On right and left fled past how fast 
Each city, town, and tower ! 



190 



' Dost fear ? dost fear ? The moon shines 
clear, 
Dost fear to ride with me ? — 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! the dead can ride ! ' — 

* O WiUiam, let them be ! — 

* See there, see there ! What yonder 

swings 
And creaks mid whistling rain ? ' — 

* Gibbet and steel, the accursed wheel ; 

A murderer in his chain. — 200 

* Hollo ! thou felon, follow here : 

To bridal bed we ride ; 
And thou shalt prance a fetter dance 
Before me and my bride.' 

And, hurry ! hurry ! clash, clash, clash ! 

The wasted form descends ; 
And fleet as wind through hazel bush 

The wild career attends. 

Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode, 
Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 210 

The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, 
The flashing pebbles flee. 

How fled what moonshine faintly showed I 

How fled what darkness hid ! 
How fled the earth beneath their feet, 

The heaven above their head ! 

* Dost fear ? dost fear ? The moon shines 

clear. 
And well the dead can ride ; 
Dost faithful Helen fear for them ? ' — 

* O leave in peace the dead J ' — 220 

* Barb ! Barb 1 methinks I hear the cock ; 

The sand will soon be run : 



Barb ! Barb ! I smell the morning air ; 
The race is well-nigh done.' 

Tramp ! tramp I along the land they 
rode. 

Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 
The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, 

The flashing pebbles flee. 

' Hurrah ! hurrah ! well ride the dead ; 

The bride, the bride is come ; 230 

And soon we reach the bridal bed, 
For, Helen, here 's my home.' 

Reluctant on its rusty hinge 

Revolved an iron door. 
And by the pale moon's setting beam 

Were seen a church and tower. 

With many a shriek and cry whiz round 
The birds of midnight scared ; 

And rustling like autumnal leaves 

Unhallowed ghosts were heard. 240 

O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale 

He spurred the fiery horse. 
Till sudden at an open grave 

He checked the wondrous course. 

The falling gauntlet quits the rein, 
Down drops the casque of steel. 

The cuirass leaves his shrinking side, 
The spur his gory heel. 

The eyes desert the naked skull. 

The mouldering flesh the bone, 250 

Till Helen's lily arms entwine 
A ghastly skeleton. 

The furious barb snorts fire and foam, 

And with a fearful bound 
Dissolves at once in empty air. 

And leaves her on the ground. 

Half seen by fits, by fits half heard, 

Pale spectres flit along, 
Wheel round the maid in dismal dance. 

And howl the funeral song ; 260 



'E'< 



the heart 's with anguish 



when 
cleft 

Revere the doom of Heaven, 
Her soul is from her body reft 5 
Her spirit be forgiven I * 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN 

The Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn, 
To horse, to horse ! halloo, halloo ! 

His fiery courser snuffs the morn. 

And thronging serfs their lord pursue. 

The eager pack from couples freed 

Dash through the bush, the brier, the 
brake ; 

While answering hound and horn and steed 
The mountain echoes startling wake. 

The beams of God's own hallowed day 
Had painted yonder spire with gold, lo 

And, calling sinful man to pray. 

Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled ; 

But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; 

Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again ! 
When, spurring from opposing sides. 

Two stranger horsemen join the train. 

Who was each stranger, left and right. 
Well may I guess, but dare not tell; 

The right-hand steed was silver white, 
The left the swarthy hue of hell. 20 

The right-hand horseman, young and fair, 
His smile was like the morn of May ; 

The left from eye of tawny glare 
Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. 

He waved his huntsman's cap on high, 
Cried, * Welcome, welcome, noble lord ! 

What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, 
To match the princely chase, afford ? ' 

* Cease thy loud bugle's changing knell,' 

Cried the fair youth with silver voice ; 30 

* And for devotion's choral swell 

Exchange the rude unhallowed noise. 

* To-day the ill-omened chase forbear, 

Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; 
To-day the Warning Spirit hear. 

To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.' 

< Away, and sweep the glades along ! ' 
The sable hunter hoarse replies ; 

* To muttering monks leave matin-song. 

And bells and books and mysteries.' 40 

The Wildgrave spurred his ardent steed. 
And, launching forward with a bound, 



* Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede. 

Would leave the jovial horn and hound ? 

* Hence, if our manly sport offend ! 

With pious fools go chant and pray : — 
Well hast thou spoke, my dark-browed 
friend ; 
Halloo, halloo ! and hark away ! ' 

The Wildgrave spurred his courser light. 
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill ; 

And on the left and on the right, 51 

Each stranger horseman followed still. 

Up springs from yonder tangled thorn 

A stag more white than mountain snow ; 
And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn, 

* Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! ' 

A heedless wretch has crossed the way ; 

He gasps the thundering hoofs below ; — 
But live who can, or die who may, 

Still, * Forward, forward ! ' on they go. 60 

See, where yon simple fences meet, 

A field with autumn's blessings crowned ; 

See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, 
A husbandman with toil embrowned : 

* O mercy, mercy, noble lord ! 

Spare the poor's pittance,' was his cry, 

* Earned by the sweat these brows have 

poured 
In scorching hour of fierce July.' 

Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, 
The left still cheering to the prey ; 7c 

The impetuous Earl no warning heeds, 
But furious holds the onward way. 

* Away, thou hound so basely born. 

Or dread the scourge's echoing blow ! ' 
Then loudly rung his bugle-horn, 

* Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! ' 

So said, so done : — A single bound 
Clears the poor laborer's humble pale ; 

Wild follows man and horse and hound. 
Like dark December's stormy gale. 80 

And man and horse, and hound and horn, 
Destructive sweep the field along ; 

While, joying o'er the wasted corn. 

Fell Famine marks the maddening 
throng. 



TWO BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER 



Again uproused the timorous prey 

Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill ; 

Hard run, he feels his strength decay, 
And trusts for life his simple skill. 



Too dangerous solitude appeared ; 

He seeks the shelter of the crowd ; 
Amid the flock's domestic herd 

His harmless head he hopes to shroud. 



90 



O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill, 
His track the steady blood-hounds trace ; 

O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, 
The furious Earl pursues the chase. 

Full lowly did the herdsman fall : 

* O spare, thou noble baron, spare 
These herds, a widow's little all ; 

These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care ! ' 100 

Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads. 
The left still cheering to the prey ; 

The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, 
But furious keeps the onward way. 

* Unmannered dog ! To stop my sport 

Vain were thy cant and beggar whine. 
Though human spirits of thy sort 

Were tenants of these carrion kine ! ' 

Again he winds his bugle-horn, 

* Hark forward, forward, holla, ho !' no 
And through the herd in ruthless scorn 

He cheers his furious hounds to go. 

In heaps the throttled victims fall ; 

Down sinks their mangled herdsman 
near ; 
The murderous cries the stag appall, — 

Again he starts, new-nerved by fear. 

With blood besmeared and white with foam. 
While big the tears of anguish pour. 

He seeks amid the forest's gloom 

The humble hermit's hallowed bower. 120 

But man and horse, and horn and hound. 
Fast rattling on his traces go ; 

The sacred chapel rung around 

With, * Hark away ! and, holla, ho ! 

All mild, amid the rout profane. 

The holy hermit poured his prayer ; 

* Forbear with blood God's house to stain ; 

Revere His altar and forbear I 



' The meanest brute has rights to plead. 
Which, wronged by cruelty or pride, 130 

Draw vengeance on the ruthless head : — 
Be warned at length and turn aside.' 

Still the fair horseman anxious pleads ; 

The black, wild whooping, points the 
prey : — 
Alas ! the Earl no warning heeds, 

But frantic keeps the forward way. 

' Holy or not, or right or wrong, 
Thy altar and its rites I spurn ; 

Not sainted martyrs' sacred song. 

Not God himself shall make me turn ! ' 140 

He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 
* Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! ' 

But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne. 
The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. 

And horse and man, and horn and hound, 
And clamor of the chase, was gone ; 

For hoofs and howls and bugle-sound, 
A deadly silence reigned alone. 

Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ; 

He strove in vain to wake his horn, 150 
In vain to call ; for not a sound 

Could from his anxious lips be borne. 

He listens for his trusty hounds, 
No distant baying reached his ears ; 

His courser, rooted to the ground. 

The quickening spur unmindful bears. 

Still dark and darker frown the shades, 
Dark as the darkness of the grave ; 

And not a sound the still invades. 

Save what a distant torrent gave. 160 

High o'er the sinner's humbled head 
At length the solemn silence broke ; 

And from a cloud of swarthy red 
The awful voice of thunder spoke. 

* Oppressor of creation fair ! 

Apostate Spirits' hardened tool ! 
Scorner of God ! Scourge of the poor ! 
The measure of thy cup is full. 

* Be chased forever through the wood. 

Forever roam the affrighted wild ; 170 
And let thy fate instruct the proud, 
God's meanest creature is His child.' 



THE VIOLET 



*T was hushed : — One flash of sombre 
glare 

With yellow tinged the forests brown ; 
Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, 

And horror chilled each nerve and bone. 

Cold poured the sweat in freezing rill ; 

A rising wind began to sing, 
And louder, louder, louder still, 179 

Brought storm and tempest on its wing. 

Earth heard the call ; — her entrails rend ; 

From yawning rifts, with many a yell. 
Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend 

The misbegotten dogs of hell. 

What ghastly huntsman next arose 
Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 

His eye like midnight lightning glows, 
His steed the swarthy hue of hell. 

The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn 
With many a shriek of helpless woe ; 190 



Behind him hound and horse and horn, 
And, * Hark away, and holla, ho ! ' 

With wild despair's reverted eye. 

Close, close behind, he marks the throng, 

W^ith bloody fangs and eager cry ; 
In frantic fear he scours along. — 

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase 
Till time itself shall have an end ; 

By day they scour earth's caverned space, 
At midnight's witching hour ascend. 20c 

This is the horn and hound and horse 
That oft the lated peasant hears ; 

Appalled he signs the frequent cross. 
When the wild din invades his ears. 

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear 
For human pride, for human woe. 

When at hisrmidnight mass he hears 
The infernal cry of * Holla, ho ! ' 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



Scott followed his translations from Burger 
with other efforts in the same direction. The 
first book, indeed, which bore his name, was a 
prose rendering of Goethe's tragedy of Goetz von 
Berlichingen, published in 1799, and he trans- 
lated near the same time, but did not publish 
till thirty years later, the House of Aspen, a free 
adaptation of Der Heilige Vehm4, by a pseu- 
donymous German author of the day. The Ger- 
manic influence was curiously blended with an 
antiquarian zeal which had an early birth and 
now sent him eagerly abroad among Scottish 
legends and half -mythical tales for subjects. 
Moreover, he was drawn into the service of 
Monk Lewis, who persuaded him to contribute 
to his collection of Tales of Wonder, them- 
selves touched with the prevailing temper of 
eeriness imported freely from Germany. 

But the most substantial result of his labors 
in these experimental years was the publica- 



tion in 1802 and 1803 of the three volumes of 
Minstrelsy of The Scottish Border. Scott had 
now become so enamored of the native legends, 
so skilful as an imitator, and, much more, so 
informed with the spirit of the old ballads, 
that his own contributions harmonized with 
the antiquities he had gathered, and these 
showed in every line, as well as in the rich ap- 
paratus of notes with which they were illus- 
trated, a mastery of the ballad literature, and 
a mind thoroughly at home in material which 
was soon to be the quarry for the author and 
editor's most noble edifices in verse. 

The present group contains, in as nearly 
exact chronological order as is practicable, 
Scott's experiments and performances in origi- 
nal verse, with scattered translations and im- 
itations, before he leaped into fame with The 
Lay of the Last Minstrel. 



THE VIOLET 

These slight verses have an interest derived 
from the fact that they were written by Scott 
in 1797 in connection with that suppressed 
passion for Williamina Stuart which never 
found direct expression to her, but remained 
deep in the poet's heart long after her mar- 



riage to Sir William Forbes, and Scott's to 
Miss Carpenter ; so that thirty years later 
Scott could write in his Journiil, just after 
waiting- on Lady Jane Stuart, the aged mother 
of Williamina : ' I went to make another visit, 
and fairly softened myself like an old fool, 
with recalling old stories, till 1 was lit for no- 
things but shedding tears and repeating verses 



8 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



for the whole night. This is sad work. The very 
grave g^ves up its dead, and time rolls back 
thirty years to add to my perplexities. I don't 
care. Yet what a romance to tell, and told I 
fear it will one day be. And then my three 
years of dreaming and my two years of waken- 
ing will be chronicled, doubtless. But the 
dead will feel no pain.' The story of this dis- 
appointment is told without names in the 
eighth chapter of Lockhart's Life^ and has re- 
cently been repeated with greater explicitness 
by Miss Skene in The Century for July, 1899. 

The violet in her green-wood bower, 

Where birchen boughs with hazels min- 
gle, ^ 

May boast itself the fairest flower 
In glen or copse or forest dingle. 

Though fair her gems of azure hue, 

Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclining ; 

I Ve seen an eye of lovelier blue, 

More sweet through watery lustre shin- 
ing. 

The summer sun that dew shall dry 
Ere yet the day be past its morrow, 

Nor longer in my false love's eye 
Remained the tear of parting sorrow. 



TO A LADY 

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL 
1797 

Take these flowers which, purple waving, 

On the ruined rampart grew, 
Where, the sons of freedom braving, 

Rome's imperial standards flew. 

Warriors from the breach of danger 
Pluck no longer laurels there ; 

They but yield the passing stranger 
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. 

THE ERL-KING 

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE 

Scott, in sending this in a letter to a friend, 
makes the comment : ' The Erl-King is a 
goblin that haunts the Black Forest in Thurin- 
gia. — To be read by a candle particularly long 
in tha souff.' Th© translation was made in 
1797. 



O, WHO rides by night thro' the woodland 

so wild ? 
It is the fond father embracing his child ; 
And close the boy nestles within his loved 

arm, 
To hold himself fast and to keep himself 

warm. 

* O father, see yonder ! see yonder ! ' he 

says ; 
*My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully 



gaze 



9' 



*0, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and 

his shroud.' — 
*No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of 

the cloud.' 

THE EKL-KING SPEAKS 

* O, come and go with me, thou loveliest 

child ; 
By many a gay sport shall thy time be 

beguiled ; 
My mother keeps for thee full many a fair 

toy, 
And many a fine flower shall she pluck for 

my boy.' 

*0 father, my father, and did you not 

hear 
The Erl-King whisper so low in my 

ear ? ' — 

* Be still, my heart's darling — my child, be 

at ease ; 
It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' 
the trees.' 

ERL-KING 

* O, wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest 

boy? 
My daughter shall tend thee with care and 

with joy ; 
She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet 

and thro' wild, 
And press thee and kiss thee and sing to 

my child.' 

* O father, my father, and saw you not 

plain. 
The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past 
through the rain ? ' — 

* O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full 

soon ; 
It was the gray willow that danced to the 
moon.' 



SONG 



\ 



ERIr-KINQ 

* O, come and go with me, no longer delay, 
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee 

away.' — 

* O father ! O father ! now, now keep your 

hold, 
The Erl-King has seized me — his grasp is 
so cold ! ' 

Sore trembled the father ; he spurred thro' 

the wild, 
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering 

child ; 
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in 

dread, 
But, clasped to his bosom, the infant was 

dead I 



WAR-SONG 

OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT 
DRAGOONS 

In 1797 Scott's ardor led ttv the formation of 
the Eoyal Edinburgh Light Dragoons, and he 
served in it as quartermaster. In 1798, when 
a French invasion was threatened, Mr. Skene 
was one day reciting the German Kriegslied 
' Der Abschied's Tag ist Da,' and the next 
morning Scott showed the following piece 
which was adopted as the troop-song. 

To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies, 

The bugles sound the call ; 
The Gallic navy stems the seas. 
The voice of battle 's on the breeze. 

Arouse ye, one and all ! 

From high Dunedin's towers we come, 

A band of brothers true ; 
Our casques the leopard's spoils surround. 
With Scotland's hardy thistle crowned ; 

We boast the red and blue. 

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown 

Dull Holland's tardy train ; 
Their ravished toys though Romans 

mourn ; 
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn, 

And, foaming, gnaw the chain ; 

Oh ! had they marked the avenging call 

Their brethren's murder gave. 
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, 



Nor patriot valor, desperate grown, 
Sought freedom in the grave ! 

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, 

In Freedom's temple born, 
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, 
To hail a master in our isle. 

Or brook a victor's scorn ? 

No ! though destruction o'er the land 

Come pouring as a flood, 
The sun, that sees our falling day. 
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway, 

And set that night in blood. 

For gold let Gallia's legions fight, 

Or plunder's bloody gain ; 
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, 
To guard our king, to fence our law, 

Nor shall their edge be vain. 

If ever breath of British gale 

Shall fan the tri-color. 
Or footstep of invader rude, 
With rapine foul, and red with blood, 

Pollute our happy shore, — 

Then farewell home ! and farewell friends I 

Adieu each tender tie ! 
Resolved, we mingle in the tide, 
Where charging squadrons furious ride. 

To conquer or to die. 

To horse ! to horse ! the sabres gleam ; 

High sounds our bugle call ; 
Combined by honor's sacred tie, 
Our word is Laws and Liberty ! 

March forward, one and all ! 



SONG 

FROM GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN 

It was a little naughty page. 

Ha ! ha ! 
Would catch a bird was closed in cage. 

Sa ! sa ! 

Ha ! ha ! 

Sa ! sa ! 
He seized the cage, the latch did draw, 

Ha ! ha I 
And in he thrust his knavish paw. 

Sa ! sa ! 

Ha ! ha I 

Sa * sa ! 



lO 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



The bird dashed out, and gained the thorn, 

Ha ! ha ! 
And laughed the silly fool to scorn ! 

Sa ! sa ! 

Ha ! ha ! 

Sa ! sa ! 



SONGS 

FROM THE HOUSE OF ASPEN 

Lockhart calls attention to the fact that the 
fii-st of these lyrics has the metre, and not a 
little of the spirit, of the boat-song of Rod- 
erick Dhu and Clan Alpin ; and that the sec- 
ond is the first draft of ' The Maid of Toro.' 



Joy to the victors, the sons of old Aspen ! 

Joy to the race of the battle and scar ! 
Glory's proud garland triumphantly grasp- 

Generous in peace, and victorious in war. 
Honor acquiring. 
Valor inspiring, 
Bursting, resistless, through foemen they 
go ; 

War-axes wielding, 
Broken ranks yielding. 
Till from the battle proud Roderic re- 
tiring. 
Yields in wild rout the fair palm to his foe. 

Joy to each warrior, true follower of As- 
pen ! 
Joy to the heroes that gained the bold 
day ! 
Health to our wounded, in agony gasping ; 
Peace to our brethren that fell in the 
fray ! 

Boldly this morning, 
Rodericks power scorning. 
Well for their chieftain their blades did 
they wield : 

Joy blest them dying. 
As Maltingen flying, 
Low laid his banners, our conquest 
adorning, 
Their death-clouded eye-balls descried on 
the field ! 

Now to our home, the proud mansion of 
Aspen 
Bend we, gay victors, triumphant away. 



There each fond damsel, her gallant youth 

clasping. 
Shall wipe from his forehead the stains 
of the fray. 

Listening the prancing 
Of horses advancing ; 
E'en now on the turrets our maidens ap- 
pear. 

Love our hearts warming, 
Songs the night charming. 
Round goes the grape in the goblet gay 
dancing ; 
Love, wine, and song, our blithe evening 
shall cheer ! 



II 

Sweet shone the sun on the fair lake of 
Toro, 
Weak were the whispers that waved the 
dark wood. 
As a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow. 
Sighed to the breezes and wept to the 
flood. — 

* Saints, from the mansion of bliss lowly 

bending. 
Virgin, that hear'st the poor suppliant's 

cry. 
Grant my petition, in anguish ascending, 
My Frederick restore, or let Eleanor die.' 

Distant and faint were the sounds of the 
battle ; 
With the breezes they rise, with the 
breezes they fail. 
Till the shout, and the groan, and the con- 
flict's dread rattle, 
And the chase's wild clamor came load- 
ing the gale. 
Breathless she gazed through the wood- 
land so dreary. 
Slowly approaching, a warrior was seen ; 
Life's ebbing tide marked his footsteps so 
weary. 
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his 
mien. 

* Save thee, fair maid, for our armies are 

flying; 
Save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is 

low ; 
Cold on yon heath thy bold Frederick is 

lying. 
Fast through the woodland approaches 

the foe.' 



GLENFINLAS 



II 



III 



RHEIN-WEIN LIED 



What makes the troopers' frozen courage 
muster ? 
The grapes of juice divine. 
Upon the Rhine, upon the Rhine they 
cluster : 
Oh, blessed be the Rhine ! 

Let fringe and furs, and many a rabbit 
skin, sirs, 
Bedeck your Saracen ; 
He 'II freeze without what warms our 
heart within, sirs, 
When the night-frost crusts the fen. 

But on the Rhine, but on the Rhine they 
cluster. 
The grapes of juice divine. 
That makes our troopers' frozen courage 
muster : 
Oh, blessed be the Rhine ! 

GLENFINLAS ; 

OR 
LORD RONALD'S CORONACH 

This ballad, written in the summer of 1799, 
and first published in Monk Lewis's Tales of 
Wonder^ was provided by Scott with a preface 
which is here reproduced because of the sug- 
gestion that Scott, in making thus his first use 
of native, Scottish material, was affected by 
his German studies and translations. The prose 
preface, it has been held, where he speaks in 
his natural voice, ' is more affecting than the 
lofty and sonorous stanzas themselves ; that 
the vague tenor of the original dream loses, 
instead of gaining, by the expanded elabora- 
tion of the detail.' Be that as it may, here is 
Scott's preface : — 

' The simple tradition, upon which the follow- 
ing stanzas are founded, runs thus : While two 
Highland hunters were passing the night in a 
solitary hothy^ (a hut, built for the purpose of 
hunting",) and making merry over their venison 
and whiskey, one of them expressed a wish 
that they had pretty lasses to complete their 
party. The words were scarcely uttered, when 
two beautiful young women, habited in green, 
entered the hut, dancing- and singing. One of 
the hunters was seduced by the siren wlio at- 
tached herself particularly to him, to leave the 
hut : the other remained, and, suspicious of 



the fair seducers, continued to play upon a 
trump, or Jew's harp, some strain, consecrated 
to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and 
the temptress vanished. Searching in the 
forest, he found the bones of his imfortunate 
friend, who had been torn to pieces and de- 
voured by the fiend into whose toils he had 
fallen. The place was from thence called the 
Glen of the Green Women. 

* Glenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying 
in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from 
Callender, in Menteith. It was formerly a 
royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of 
Moray. This country, as well as the adja- 
cent district of Balquidder, was, in times of 
yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To 
the west of the Forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch 
Katrine, and its romantic avenue, called the 
Troshachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoir- 
lich, are mountains in the same district, and 
at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The 
River Teith passes Callender and the Castle of 
Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The 
Pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, 
and is the principal access to the Highlands, 
from that town. Glenartney is a forest, near 
Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract 
of Alpine scenery.' 

It may be observed that the scenery of the 
ballad reappears in The Lady of the Lake, as 
also in Waverley and Bob Boy. 

For them the viewless forms of air obey, 
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair ; 

They know what spirit brews the stormf ul day, 
And heartless oft, like moody madness stare, 

To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare. 

Collins. 

* O HONE a rie' ! O hone a rie' ! 

The pride of Albin's line is o'er, 
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree ; 

We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! * 

O ! sprung from great Macgillianore, 
The chief that never feared a foe, 

How matchless was thy broad claymore, 
How deadly thine unerring bow ! 

Well can the Saxon widows tell 

How on the Teith's resounding shore la 
The boldest Lowland warriors fell, 

As down from Lenny's pass you bore. 

But o'er his hills in festal day 

How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree, 
While youths and maids the light strath- 
spey 

So nimbly danced with Highland glee ! 



12 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



Cheered by the strength of Ronald's shell, 
E'en age forgot his tresses hoar ; 

But now the loud lament we swell, 

O, ne'er to see Lord Ronald more ! 20 

From distant isles a chieftain came 
The joys of Ronald's halls to find, 

And chase with him the dark-brown game 
That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 

'T was Moy ; whom in Columba's isle 
The seer's prophetic spirit found, 

As, with a minstrel's fire the while. 

He waked his harp's harmonious sound. 

Full many a spell to him was known 
Which wandering spirits shrink to hear; 

And many a lay of potent tone 31 

Was never meant for mortal ear. 

For there, 't is said, in mystic mood 

High converse with the dead they hold. 

And oft espy the fated shroud 

That shall the future corpse enfold. 

O, so it fell that on a day, 

To rouse the red deer from their den, 
The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, 

And scoured the deep Glenfinlas glen. 

No vassals wait their sports to aid, 41 

To watch their safety, deck their board ; 

Their simple dress the Highland plaid. 
Their trusty guard the Highland sword. 

Three summer days through brake and dell 
Tlieir whistling shafts successful flew; 

And still when dewy evening fell 
The quarry to their hut they drew. 

In gray Glenfinlas' deepest nook 

Tlie solitary cabin stood, 50 

Fast by Moneira's sullen brook. 

Which murmurs through that lonely 
wood. 

Soft fell the night, the sky was calm. 
When three successive days had flown ; 

And summer mist in dewy balm 

Steeped heathy bank and mossy stone. 

The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes, 
Afar her dubious radiance shed, 

Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes. 
And resting on Benledi's head. 60 



Now in their hut in social guise 
Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy; 

And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes, 
As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. 

' AVhat lack we here to crown our bliss. 
While thus the pulse of joy beats high ? 

What but fair woman's yielding kiss. 
Her panting breath and melting eye ? 

* To chase the deer of yonder shades. 

This morning left their father's pile 7a 
The fairest of our mountain maids. 
The daughters of the proud Glengyle. 

* Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart. 

And dropped the tear and heaved the 
sigh : 
But vain the lover's wily art 
Beneath a sister's watchful eye. 

* But thou mayst teach that guardian fair, 

While far with Mary I am flown, 
Of other hearts to cease her care. 

And find it hard to guard her own. So 

* Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see 

The lovely Flora of Glengyle, 
Unmindful of her charge and me, 

Hang on thy notes 'twixt tear and smile. 

* Or, if she choose a melting tale, 

All underneath the greenwood bough, 
Will good Saint Oran's rule prevail. 
Stern huntsman of the rigid brow ? ' 

* Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, 

No more on me shall rapture rise, 90 
Responsive to the panting breath. 
Or yielding kiss or melting eyes. 

' E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe 
Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, 

I bade my harp's wild wailings flow, 
On me the Seer's sad spirit came. 

* The last dread curse of angry heaven. 

With ghastly sights and sounds of woe 
To dash each glimpse of joy was given — 
The gift the future ill to know. loc 

* The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn, 

So gayly part from Oban's bay, 
My eye beheld her dashed and torn 
Far on the rocky Colonsay. 



GLENFINLAS 



13 



* Thy Fergus too — thy sister's son, 

Thou saw's t with pride the gallant's 
power, 
As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe 
He left the skirts of huge Beiimore. 

* Thou only saw'st their tartans wave 109 

As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, 
Heard'st but the pibroch answering brave 
To many a target clanking round. 

* I heard the groans, I marked the tears, 

I saw the wound his bosom bore, 
When on the serried Saxon spears 
He poured his clan's resistless roar. 

* And thou, who bidst me think of bliss, 

And bidst my heart awake to glee, 
And court like thee the wanton kiss — 
That heart, Ronald, bleeds for thee ! 120 

* I see the death-damps chill thy brow : 

I hear thy Warning Spirit cry ; 
The corpse-lights dance — they 're gone, 
and now — 
No more is given to gifted eye ! ' 

* Alone enjoj^ thy dreary dreams. 

Sad prophet of the evil hour ! 
Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams 
Because to-morrow's storm may lour ? 

* Or false or sooth thy words of woe, 129 

Clangillian's Chieftain ne'er shall fear ; 
His blood shall bound at rapture's glow. 
Though doomed to stain the Saxon spear. 

* E'en now, to meet me in yon dell. 

My Mary's buskins brush the dew.' 
He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell. 
But called his dogs and gay withdrew. 

Within an hour returned each hound, 
In rushed the rousers of the deer ; 

They howled in melancholy sound, 

Then closely couched beside the Seer. 140 

No Ronald yet, though midnight came, 
And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams. 

As, bending o'er the dying flame, 

He fed the watch-tire's quivering gleams. 

Sudden the hounds erect their ears, 
Aud sudden cease their moaning howl^ 



Close pressed to Moy, they mark their fears 
By shivering limbs and stifled growl. 

Untouched the harp began to ring 

As softly, slowly, oped the door ; 150 

And shook responsive every string 
As light a footstep pressed the floor. 

And by the watch-fire's glimmering light 
Close by the minstrel's side was seen 

An hmitress maid, in beauty bright. 
All dropping wet her robes of green. 

All dropping wet her garments seem ; 

Chilled was her cheek, her bosom bare. 
As, bending o'er the dying gleam, 

She wrung the moisture from her hair. lec 

With maiden blush she softly said, 
' O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, 

In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade, 
A lovely maid in vest of green : 

* With her a chief in Highland pride ; 

His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, 
The mountain dirk adorns his side, 
Far on the wind his tartans flow ? ' — 

' And who art thou ? and who are they ? ' 
All ghastly gazing, Moy replied : 170 

* And why, beneath the moon's pale ray, 

Dare ye thus roam Glenfijilas' side ? ' 

* Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide. 

Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle. 
Our father's towers o'erhang her side, 
The castle of the bold Glengyle. 

* To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer 

Our woodland course this morn we bore, 
And haply met while wandering here 
The son of great Macgillianore. iSo 

* O, aid me then to seek the pair, 

Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost ; 
Alone I dare not venture there. 

Where walks, they say, the shrieking 
ghost.' 

* Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there ; 

Then first, my own sad vow to keep. 
Here will I pour my midnight prayer, 
^Vllich still must rise when mortals 
sleep.' 



u 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



* O, first, for pity's gentle sake, 

Guide a lone wanderer on her way ! 190 
For I must cross the haunted brake, 
And reach my father's towers ere day/ 

* First, three times tell each Ave-bead, 

And thrice a Pater-noster say ; 
Then kiss with me the holy rede ; 
So shall we safely wend our way.' 

* O, shame to knighthood, strange and foul ! 

Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, 
And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, 
Which best befits thy sullen vow. 200 

* Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, 

Thy heart was froze to love and joy, 
When gayly rung tliy raptured lyre 
To wanton Morna's melting eye.' 

Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame 
And high his sable locks arose. 

And quick his color went and came 
As fear and rage alternate rose. 

* And thou ! when by the blazing oak 

I lay, to her and love resigned, 210 

Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, 
Or sailed ye on the midnight wind ? 

* Not thine a race of mortal blood. 

Nor old Glengyle's pretended line ; 
Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood — 
Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine.' 

He muttered thrice Saint Oran's rhyme, 
And thrice Saint Fillan's powerful 
prayer ; 

Then turned him to the eastern clime. 
And sternly shook his coal-black hair. 220 

And, bending o'er his harp, he flung 
His wildest witch-notes on the wind ; 

And loud and high and strange they rung. 
As many a magic change they find. 

Tall waxed the Spirit's altering form, 
Till to the roof her stature grew ; 

Then, mingling with the rising storm, 
With one wild yell away she flew. 

Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear : 
The slender hut in fragments flew ; 230 

But not a lock of Moy's loose hair 
Was waved by wind or wet by dew. 



Wild mingling with the howling gale, 
Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise ; 

High o'er the minstrel's head they sail 
And die amid the northern skies. 

The voice of thimder shook the wood, 
As ceased the more than mortal yell ; 

And spattering foul a shower of blood 
Upon the hissing firebrands fell. 2^c 

Next dropped from high a mangled arm ; 

The fingers strained an half -drawn blade ; 
And last, the life-blood streaming warm, 

Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. 

Oft o'er that head in battling field 

Streamed the proud crest of high Ben- 
more ; 

That arm the broad claymore could wield 
Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. 



Woe to Moneira's sullen rills ! 

Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen ! 
There never son of Albin's hills 

Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen ! 



250 



E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet 
At noon shall shun that sheltering den, 

Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet 
The wayward Ladies of the Glen. 

And we — behind the chieftain's shield 
No more shall we in safety dwell ; 

None leads the people to the field — 

And we the loud lament must swell. 260 

O hone a rie' ! O hone a rie' ! 

The pride of Albin's line is o'er ! 
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree ; 

We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! 



THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN 

This ballad was written in the autumn of 1799 
at Mertoun House, and was first published in 
Monk Lewis's Tales of Wonder. Lockliart 
points out that it is the first of Scott's original 
pieces in which he uses the measure of his own 
favorite minstrels. The ballad was written at 
the playful request of Scott of Harden, who 
was the owner of the tower of Smailholm, when 
Walter Scott begged him not to destroy it. 

The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, 
He spurred his courser on, 



THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN 



15 



Without stop or stay, down the rocky way, 
That leads to Brotherstone. 

He went not with the bold Buccleuch 

His banner broad to rear ; 
He went not 'gainst the English yew 

To lift the Scottish spear. 

Yet his plate-jack was braced and his hel- 
met was laced, 
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore ; 10 
At his saddle - gerthe was a good steel 
sperthe, 
Full ten pound weight and more. 

The baron returned in three days* space, 
And his looks were sad and sour ; 

And weary was his courser's pace 
As he reached his rocky tower. 

He came not from where An cram Moor 

Ran red with English blood ; 
Where the Douglas true and the bold 
Buccleuch 

'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. 20 

Yet was his helmet hacked and hewed, 

His acton pierced and tore, 
His axe and his dagger with blood im- 
brued, — 

But it was not English gore. 

He lighted at the Chapellage, 

He held him close and still ; 
And he whistled thrice for his little foot- 
page. 

His name was English Will. 

* Come thou hither, my little foot-page, 

Come hither to my knee ; 30 

Though thou art young and tender of 
age, 
I think thou art true to me. 

* Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, 

And look thou tell me true ! 
Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, 
What did thy lady do ? ' 

•My lady, each night, sought the lonely 
light 
That burns on the wild Watchfold ; 
For from height to height the beacons 
bright 
Of the English foemen told. 40 



* The bittern clamored from the moss, 

The wind blew loud and shrill ; 
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross 
To the eiry Beacon Hill. 

* I watched her steps, and silent came 

Where she sat her on a stone ; — 
No watchman stood by the dreary flame, 
It burned all alone. 

* The second night I kept her in sight 

Till to the fire she came, 50 

And, by Mary's might 1 an armed knight 
Stood by the lonely flame. 

* And many a word that warlike lord 

Did speak to my lady there ; 
But the rain fell fast and loud blew the 
blast. 
And I heard not what they were. 

* The third night there the sky was fair, 

And the mountain-blast was still, 
As again I watched the secret pair 

On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 6a 

* And I heard her name the midnight 

hour, 
And name this holy eve ; 
And say, "Come this night to thy lady's 

bower ; 
Ask no bold baron's leave. 

*"He lifts his spear with the bold Buc- 
cleuch ; 

His lady is all alone ; 
The door she '11 undo to her knight so true 

On the eve of good Saint John." 

* " I cannot come ; I must not come ; 

I dare not come to thee ; 70 

On the eve of Saint John I must wander 
alone : 

In thy bower I may not be." 

* " Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight ! 

Thou shouldst not say me nay ; 
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers 
meet 
Is worth the whole summer's day. 

* " And I '11 chain the blood-hound, and the 
warder shall not sound, 
And rushes shall be strewed on tlie 
stair; 



i6 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



So, by the black rood-stone and by holy 
Saint John, 
I conjure thee, my love, to be there ! " 80 

* " Though the blood-hound be mute and 
the rush beneath my foot, 
And the warder his bugle should not 
blow, 
Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber 
to the east. 
And my footstep he would know." 

* " O, fear not the priest who sleepeth to 

the east. 
For to Dryburgh the way he has 

ta'en ; 
And there to say mass, till three days do 

pass. 
For the soul of a knight that is slayne." 

* He turned him around and grimly he 

frowned ; 
Then he laughed right scornfully — 90 
"He who says the mass-rite for the soul 

of that knight 
May as well say mass for me: 

*"At the lone midnight hour when bad 
spirits have power 
In thy chamber will I be." — 
With that he was gone and my lady left 
alone, 
And no more did I see.' 

Then changed, I trow, was that bold 
baron's brow 
From the dark to the blood-red high ; 

* Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou 

hast seen, 
For, by Mary, he shall die ! * 100 

* His arms shone full bright in the beacon's 

red light; 
His plume it was scarlet and blue; 
On his shield was a hound in a silver leash 

bound, 
And his crest was a branch of the 

yew.' 

* Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot- 

page. 
Loud dost thou lie to me ! 
For that knight is cold and low laid in the 

mould, 
All under the Eildon-tree.' 



' Yet hear but my word, my noble lord ! 

For I heard her name his name ; 1 10 

And that lady bright, she called the 
knight 

Sir Richard of Coldinghame.' 

The bold baron's brow then changed, I 
trow, 
From high blood-red to pale — 
' The grave is deep and dark — and the 
corpse is stiff and stark — 
So I may not trust thy tale. 

* Where fair Tweed flows round holy Mel- 

rose, 
And Eildon slopes to the plain, 
Full three nights ago by some secret foe 
That gay gallant was slain. 120 

* The varying light deceived thy sight. 

And the wild winds drowned the name; 
For the Dryburgh bells ring and the white 
monks do sing 
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! ' 

He passed the court-gate and he oped the 
tower-gate, 
And he mounted the narrow stair 
To the bartizan-seat where, with miaids 
that on her wait, 
He found his lady fair. 

That lady sat in mournful mood; 

Looked over hill and vale ; 130 

Over Tweed's fair flood and Mertoun's 
wood. 

And all down Teviotdale. 

' Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright ! ' 

* Now hail, thou baron true ! 
What news, what news, from Ancram 
fight? 

What news from the bold Buccleuch ? ' 

* The Ancram moor is red with gore, 

For many a Southern fell ; 
And Buccleuch has charged us evermore 
To watch our beacons well.' 140 

The lady blushed red, but nothing she 
said : 
Nor added the baron a word : 
Then she stepped down the stair to her 
chamber fair. 
And so did her moody lord. 



THE GRAY BROTHER 



17 



In sleep the lady mourned, and the baron 
tossed and turned, 
And oft to himself he said, — 

* The worms around him creep, and his 

bloody grave is deep — 
It cannot give up the dead ! ' 

It was near the ringing of matin-bell, 
The night was well-nigh done, 150 

When a heavy sleep on that baron fell. 
On the eve of good Saint John. 

The lady looked through the chamber fair. 
By the light of a dying flame; 

And she was aware of a knight stood 
there — 
Sir Richard of Coldinghame! 

* Alas ! away, away ! ' she cried, 

* For the holy Virgin's sake ! ' 

* Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side ; 

But, lady, he will not awake. 160 

' By Eildon-tree for long nights three 

In bloody grave have I lain ; 
The mass and the death-prayer are said 
for me. 

But, lady, they are said in vain. 

*By the baron's brand, near Tweed's fair 
strand. 
Most foully slain I fell ; 
And my restless sprite on the beacon's 
height 
For a space is doomed to dwell. 

* At our trysting-place, for a certain space, 

I must wander to and fro; 170 

But I had not had power to come to thy 
bower 
Hadst thou not conjured me so.' 

Love mastered fear — her brow she crossed ; 

* How, Richard, hast thou sped ? 
And art thou saved or art thou lost ? ' 

The vision shook his head ! 

* Who spilleth life shall forfeit life ; 

So bid thy lord believe: 
That lawless love is guilt above. 

This awful sign receive.' iSo 

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam, 
His right upon her hand ; 



I 



The lady shrunk and fainting sunk. 
For it scorched like a fiery brand. 

The sable score of fingers four 

Remains on that board impressed ; 

And forevermore that lady wore 
A covering on her wrist. 

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower 

Ne'er looks upon the sun ; 19a 

There is a monk in Melrose tower 
He speaketh word to none. 

That nun who ne'er beholds the day, 
That monk who speaks to none — 

That nun was Smaylho'me's lady gay, 
That monk the bold baron. 



THE GRAY BROTHER 

A fragment written in 1799. * The tradition,' 
says Seott, ' upon which the tale is founded, 
regards a house upon the barony of Gilmerton, 
near Lass wade, in Mid-lothian. This building, 
now called Gilmerton Grange, was originally 
named Burndale, from the following tragic 
adventure. The barony of Gilmerton belonged, 
of yore, to a gentleman named Heron, who 
had one beautiful daughter. This young lady 
was seduced by the Abbot of Newbattle, a 
richly endowed abbey upon the banks of the 
South Esk, now a seat of the Marquis of Lo- 
thian. Heron came to the knowledge of this 
circumstance, and learned also that the lovers 
carried on their guilty intercourse by the con- 
nivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this 
house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He 
formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, un- 
deterred by the supposed sanctity of the cler- 
ical character or by the stronger claims of 
natural affection. Choosing, therefore, a dark 
and windy night, when the objects of his ven- 
geance were engaged in a stolen interview, he 
set fire to a stack of dried thorns, and other 
combustibles, which he had caused to be piled 
against the house, and reduced to a pile of 
glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its in- 
mates.* 

The Pope he was saying the high, high 
mass 
All on Saint Peter's day, 
With the power to him given by the saints 
in heaven 
To wash men's sins away. 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



The Pope he was saying the blessed mass, 
And the people kneeled around, 

And from each man's soul his sins did pass. 
As he kissed the holy ground. 

And all among the crowded throng 

Was still, both limb and tongue, lo 

While through vaulted roof and aisles aloof 
The holy accents rung. 

At the holiest word he quivered for fear. 

And faltered in the sound — 
And when he would the chalice rear 

He dropped it to the ground. 

* The breath of one of evil deed 

Pollutes our sacred day ; 
He has no portion in our creed, 

No part in what I say. 20 

* A being whom no blessed word 

To ghostly peace can bring, 
A wretch at whose approach abhorred 
Recoils each holy thing. 

* Up, up, unhappy ! haste, arise ! 

My adjuration fear ! 
I charge thee not to stop my voice, 
Nor longer tarry here ! ' 

Amid them all a pilgrim kneeled 

In gown of sackcloth gray ; 30 

Far journeying from his native field. 
He first saw Rome that day. 

For forty days and nights so drear 

I ween he had not spoke. 
And, save with bread and water clear, 

His fast he ne'er had broke. 

Amid the penitential flock. 

Seemed none more bent to pray ; 

But when the Holy Father spoke 

He rose and went his way. 40 

Again unto his native land 

His weary course he drew. 
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, 

And Pentland's mountains blue. 

His unblest feet his native seat 
Mid Eske's fair woods regain ; 

Through woods more fair no stream more 
sweet 
Rolls to the eastern main. 



50 



And lords to meet the pilgrim came, 
And vassals bent the knee ; 

For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame 
Was none more famed than he. 

And boldly for his country still 

In battle he had stood. 
Ay, even when on the banks of Till 

Her noblest poured their blood. 



Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet I 
By Eske's fair streams that run. 

O'er airy steep through copsewood deep, 
Impervious to the sun. 60 

There the rapt poet's step may rove, 

And yield the muse the day ; 
There Beauty, led by timid Love, 

May shun the telltale ray; 

From that fair dome where suit is paid 

By blast of bugle free. 
To Auchendinny's hazel glade 

And haunted Woodhouselee. 

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove 
And Roslin's rocky glen, 70 

Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, 
And classic Hawthornden ? 

Yet never a path from day to day 

The pilgrim's footsteps range. 
Save but the solitary way 

To Burndale's ruined grange. 

A woful place was that, I ween, 

As sorrow could desire ; 
For nodding to the fall was each crumbling 
wall. 

And the roof was scathed with fire. 80 

It fell upon a summer's eve. 

While on Carnethy's head 
The last faint gleams of . the sun's low 
beams 

Had streaked the gray with red. 

And the convent bell did vespers tell 

Ne what tie's oaks among, 
And mingled with the solemn knell 

Our Ladye's evening song ; 

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell, 
Came slowly down the wind, 90 j 



THE FIRE-KING 



19 



And on the pilgrim's ear they fell, 
As his wonted path he did find. 

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was, 

Nor ever raised his eye, 
Until he came to that dreary place 
|b Which did all in ruins lie. 

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with 
fire. 
With many a bitter groan — 
And there was aware of a Gray Friar 
I Resting him on a stone. 100 

* Now, Christ thee save ! ' said the Gray 

Brother ; 
* Some pilgrim thou seemest to be.' 
But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze. 
Nor answer again made he. 

*0, come ye from east or come ye from 
west, 
Or bring reliques from over the sea ; 
Or come ye from the shrine of Saint James 
the divine, 
Or Saint John of Beverley ? ' 

* I come not from the shrine of Saint James 

the divine, 
Nor bring reliques from over the sea ; 1 10 
I bring but a curse from our father, the 
I .Pope, 

p Which forever will cling to me.' 

* Now, wof ul pilgrim, say not so ! 

But kneel thee down to me. 
And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin 
That absolved thou mayst be.' 

" * And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, 

That I should shrive to thee. 
When He to whom are given the keys of 
earth and heaven 
Has no power to pardon me ? ' 120 

* O, I am sent from a distant clime, 

Five thousand miles away. 
And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, 
Done here 'twixt night and day.' 

The pilgrim kneeled him on the sand, 

And thus began his saye — 
' When on his neck an ice-cold hand 

Did that Gray Brother laye. 



THE FIRE-KING 

The blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were 
upon him. — Eastern Tale. 

This ballad, written in 1799, was published 
in Tales of Wonder. * The story,' Scott says, 
' is partly historical, for it is recorded that, dur- 
ing the struggles of the Latin kingdom of Je- 
rusalem, a Knight Templar called Saint- Alban 
deserted to the Saracens, and defeated the 
Christians in many combats, till he was finally 
routed and slain in a conflict with King Bald- 
win, under the walls of Jerusalem.' 

Bold knights and fair dames, to my harp 
give an ear, 

Of love and of war and of wonder to hear ; 

And you haply may sigh in the midst of 
your glee 

At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosa- 
lie. 

O, see you that castle, so strong and so 

high? 
And see you that lady, the tear in her eye ? 
And see you that palmer from Palestine's 

land, 
The shell on his hat and the staff in his 

hand ? — 

* Now, palmer, gray palmer, O, tell unto me. 
What news bring you home from the Holy 

Countrie ? 10 

And how goes the warfare by Galilee's 

strand ? 
And how fare our nobles, the flower of the 

land ? ' 

*0, well goes the warfare by Galilee's 
wave, 

For Gilead and Nablous and Kamah we 
have ; 

And well fare our nobles by Mount Le- 
banon, 

For the heathen have lost and the Chris- 
tians have won.' 

A fair chain of gold mid her ringlets there 

hung ; 
O'er the palmer's gray locks the fair chain 

has she flung: 

* O palmer, gray palmer, this chain be thy 

fee 
For the news thou hast brought from the 
Holy Countrie. ac 



20 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



*And, palmer, good palmer, by Galilee's 
wave, 

O, saw ye Count Albert, the geutle and 
brave ? 

When the Crescent went back and the Red- 
cross rushed on, 

O, saw ye him foremost on Mount Leba- 
non?' 

* O lady, fair lady, the tree green it grows ; 
O lady, fair lady, the stream pure it flows ; 
Your castle stands strong and your hopes 

soar on high, 
But, lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die. 

* The green boughs they wither, the thun- 

derbolt falls. 

It leaves of your castle but levin-scorched 
walls: 30 

The pure stream runs muddy ; the gay 
hope is gone ; 

Count Albert is prisoner on Mount Leba- 
non.' 

O, she 's ta'en a horse should be fleet at 

her speed ; 
And she 's ta'en a sword should be sharp 

at her need; 
And she has ta'en shipping for Palestine's 

land, 
To ransom Count Albert from Soldanrie's 

hand. 

Small thought had Count Albert on fair 
Rosalie, 

Small thought on his faith or his knight- 
hood had he: 

A heathenish damsel his light heart had 
won. 

The Soldan's fair daughter of Mount Le- 
banon. 40 

* O Christian, brave Christian, my love 

wouldst thou be, 
Three things must thou do ere I hearken 

to thee: 
Our laws and our worship on thee shalt 

thou take ; 
And this thou shalt first do for Zulema's 

sake. 

* And next, in the cavern where burns ever- 

more 
The mystical flame which the Curdmans 
adore, 



Alone and in silence three nights shalt 

thou wake ; 
And this thou shalt next do for Zulema's 

sake. 

* And last, thou shalt aid us with counsel 

and hand. 
To drive the Frank robber from Palestine's 

land ; 50 

For my lord and my love then Count 

Albert I '11 take. 
When all this is accomplished for Zulema^s 

sake.' 

He has thrown by liis helmet and cross- 
handled sword. 

Renouncing his knighthood, denying his 
Lord ; 

He has ta'en the green caftan, and turban 
put on. 

For the love of the maiden of fair Lebanon. 

And in the dread cavern, deep deep under 

ground. 
Which fifty steel gates and steel portals 

surround. 
He has watched until daybreak, but sight 

saw he none. 
Save the flame burning bright on its altar 

of stone. 60 

Amazed was the Princess, the Soldan 

amazed. 
Sore murmured the priests as on Albert 

they gazed ; 
They searched all his garments, and under 

his weeds 
They found and took from him his rosary 

beads. 

Again in the cavern, deep deep under 

ground, 
He watched the lone night, while the winds 

whistled round ; 
Far off was their murmur, it came not 

more nigh, 
The flame burned unmoved and naught 

else did he spy. 

Loud murmured the priests and amazed 

was tlie king. 
While many dark spells of their witchcraft 

they sing ; 70 

They searched Albert's body, and, lo ! on 

his breast 



THE FIRE-KING 



21 



Was the sign of the Cross by his father 
impressedo 

' The priests they erase it with care and 
with pain, 
And the recreant returned to the cavern 

again ; 
But as he descended a whisper there fell : 
^ It was his good angel, who bade him fare- 
well ! 

High bristled his hair, his heart fluttered 
^ and beat, 

And he turned him five steps, half resolved 

to retreat ; 
But his heart it was hardened, his purpose 

was gone, 
When he thought of the maiden of fair 

Lebanon. 80 

Scarce passed he the archway, the thresh- 
old scarce trode, 

'When the winds from the four points of 
heaven were abroad. 

They made each steel portal to rattle and 
ring, 

And borne on the blast came the dread 
Fire-King. 

Full sore rocked the cavern -whene'er he 
drew nigh, 

iThe fire on the altar blazed bickering and 
high; 

In volcanic explosions the mountains pro- 
claim 

The dreadful approach of the Monarch of 
Flame. 

Unmeasured in height, undistinguished in 

form. 
His breath it was lightning, his voice it was 

storm ; 90 

I ween the stout heart of Count Albert was 

tame. 
When he saw in his terrors the Monarch of 

Flame. 

In his hand a broad falchion blue-glim- 
mered through smoke, 
(And Mount Lebanon shook as the monarch 
he spoke: 

' With this brand shalt thou conquer, thus 
long and no more. 

Till thou bend to the Cross and the Virgin 
adore.' 



The cloud-shrouded arm gives the weapon; 

and see ! 
The recreant receives the charmed gift on 

his knee: 
The thunders growl distant and faint 

gleam the fires, 
As, borne on the whirlwind, the phantom 

retires. 100 

Count Albert has armed him the Paynim 

among. 
Though his heart it was false, yet his arm 

it was strong ; 
And the Red-cross waxed faint and the 

Crescent came on. 
From the day he commanded on Mount 

Lebanon. 

From Lebanon's forests to Galilee's wave. 
The sands of Samaar drank the blood of 

the brave ; 
Till the Knights of the Temple and 

Knights of Saint John, 
With Salem's King Baldwin, against him 

came on. 

The war-cymbals clattered, the trumpets 

replied, 
The lances were couched, and they closed 

on each side ; no 

And horseman and horses Count Albert 

overthrew. 
Till he pierced the thick tumult King 

Baldwin unto. 

Against the charmed blade which Count 
Albert did wield, 

The fence had been vain of the king's Red- 
cross shield ; 

But a page thrust him forward the mon^ 
arch before. 

And cleft the proud turban the renegade 
wore. 

So fell was the dint that Count Albert 
stooped low 

Before the crossed shield to his steel 
saddlebow ; 

And scarce had he bent to the Red-cross 
his head, — 

'Bonne Grace, Notre Dame!* he unwit- 
tingly said. I20 

Sore sighed tlie charmed sword, for its 
virtue was o'er, 



22 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



It sprung from his grasp and was never 
seen more; 

But true men have said that the light- 
ning's red wing 

Did waft back the brand to the dread Fire- 
King. 

He clenched his set teeth and his gaunt- 
leted hand ; 

He stretched with one buffet that page on 
the strand; 

As back from the stripling the broken 
casque rolled, 

You might see the blue eyes and the ring- 
lets of gold. 

Short time had Count Albert in horror to 

stare 
On those death-swimming eyeballs and 

blood-clotted hair ; 130 

For down came the Templars, like Cedron 

in flood, 
And dyed their long lances in Saracen 

blood. 

The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ishmaelites 
yield 

To the scallop, the saltier, and crossleted 
shield ; 

And the eagles were gorged with the in- 
fidel dead 

From Bethsaida's fountains to Naphthali's 
head. 

The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain. — 

O, who is yon Paynim lies stretched mid 
the slain ? 

And who is yon page lying cold at his 
knee ? — 

O, who but Count Albert and fair Rosa- 
lie ? 140 

The lady was buried in Salem's blest 
bound, 

The count he was left to the vulture and 
hound : 

Her soul to high mercy Our Lady did 
bring ; 

His went on the blast to the dread Fire- 
King. 

Yet many a minstrel in harping can tell 
How the Red-cross it conquered, the Cres- 
cent it fell: 



And lords and gay ladies have sighed mid 

their glee 
At the tale of Count Albert and fair Rosa- 

lie. 



BOTHWELL CASTLE 

A FRAGMENT 

1799 

When fruitful Clydesdale's apple-bowers 

Are mellowing in the noon ; 
When sighs round Pembroke's ruined 
towers 

The sultry breath of June ; 

When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood, 

Must leave his channel dry, 
And vainly o'er the limpid flood 

The angler guides his fly ; 

If chance by Bothwell's lovely braes 

A wanderer thou hast been, 
Or hid thee from the summer's blaze 

In Blautyre's bowers of green, 

Full where the copsewood opens wild 

Thy pilgrim step hath staid. 
Where Bothwell's towers in ruin piled 

O'erlook the verdant glade ; 

And many a tale of love and fear 
Hath mingled with the scene — 

Of Bothwell's banks that bloomed so deaFi 
And Bothwell's bonny Jean. 

O, if with rugged minstrel lays 

Unsated be thy ear. 
And thou of deeds of other days 

Another tale wilt hear, — 

Then all beneath the spreading beech, 

Flung careless on the lea. 
The Gothic muse the tale shall teach 

Of Bothwell's sisters three. 

Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont head, 

He blew his bugle round, 
Till the wild bull in Cadyow wood 

Has started at the sound. 

Saint George's cross, o'er Bothwell hung, 
Was waving far and wide, 



THE SHEPHERD'S TALE 



23 



And from the lofty turret flung 
Its crimson blaze on Clyde ; 

And rising at the bugle blast 
That marked the Scottish foe, 

Old England's yeomen mustered fast, 
And bent the Norman bow. 

Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer rose, 

Proud Pembroke's Earl was he — 
While— 



THE SHEPHERD'S TALE 

A FRAGMENT 
1799 

And ne'er but once, my son, he says, 

Was yon sad cavern trod. 
In persecution's iron days 

When the land was left by God. 

From Bewlie bog with slaughter red 

A wanderer hither drew, 
, And oft he stopt and turned his head, 
As by fits the night wind blew ; 

1 For trampling round by Cheviot edge 

Were heard the troopers keen, 10 

And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge 
The death-shot flashed between. 

Tne moonbeams through the misty shower 

On yon dark cavern fell ; 
'Through the cloudy night the snow gleamed 
white, 

Which sunbeam ne'er could quell. 

* Yon cavern dark is rough and rude, 

And cold its jaws of snow ; 
But more rough and rude are the men of 
blood 

That hunt my life below ! 20 

' Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell. 

Was hewn by demon's hands; 
But I had lourd melle with the fiends of 
hell 

Than with Clavers and his band.' 

He heard the deep-mouthed bloodhound 
bark, 
He heard the horses neigh, 



He plunged him in the cavern dark, 
Aid downward sped his way. 

Now faintly down the winding path 

Came the cry of the faulting hound, 30 

And the muttered oath of balked wrath 
Was lost in hollow sound. 

He threw him on the flinted floor, 

And held his breath for fear ; 
He rose and bitter cursed his foes, 

As the sounds died on his ear. 

* O, bare thine arm, thou battling Lord, 

For Scotland's wandering band ; 
Dash from the oppressor's grasp the sword. 
And sweep him from the land ! 40 

* Forget not thou thy people's groans 

From dark Dunnotter's tower, 
Mixed with the sea-fowl's shrilly moans 
And ocean's bursting roar ! 

* O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride. 

Even in his mightiest day. 
As bold he strides through conquest's tide, 
O, stretch him on the clay ! 

* His widow and his little ones, 

O, may their tower of trust 5^ 

Remove its strong foundation stones, 
And crush them in the dust ! ' 

* Sweet prayers to me,' a voice replied, 

* Thrice welcome, guest of mine ! * 
And glimmering on the cavern side 
A light was seen to shine. 

An aged man in amice brown 

Stood by the wanderer's side. 
By powerful charm a dead man's arm 

The torch's light supplied. 6c 

From each stiff finger stretched upright 

Arose a ghastly flame, 
That waved not in the blast of night 

Which through the cavern came. 

O, deadly blue was that taper's hue 

That flamed th'3 cavern o'er, 
But more deadly blue was the ghastly hue 

Of his eyes who the taper bore. 

He laid on his head a hand like lead, 
As heavy, pale, and cold — 70 



24 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



* Vengeance be thine, thou guest of mine, 

If thy heart be firm and bold. 

* But if faint thy heart, and caitiff fear 

Thy recreant sinews know. 
The mountain erne thy heart shall tear, 
Thy nerves the hooded crow.' 

The wanderer raised him undismayed : 

* My soul, by dangers steeled. 
Is stubborn as my Border blade, 

Which never knew to yield. 80 

* And if thy power can speed the hour 

Of vengeance on my foes, 
Theirs be the fate from bridge and gate 
To feed the hooded crows.' 

The Brownie looked him in the face, 
And his color fled with speed — 

*I fear me,' quoth he, *uneath it will be 
To match thy word and deed. 

* In ancient days when English bands 

Sore ravaged Scotland fair, 90 

The sword and shield of Scottish land 
Was valiant Halbert Kerr, 

* A warlock loved the warrior well, 

Sir Michael Scott by name, 
And he sought for his sake a spell to make. 
Should the Southern foemen tame. 

*"Look thou," he said, "from Cessford 
head 
As the July sun sinks low. 
And when glimmering white on Cheviot's 
height 
Thou shalt spy a wreath of snow, 100 

The spell is complete which shall bring to 
thy feet 
The haughty Saxon foe." 

* For many a year wrought the wizard here 

In Cheviot's bosom low, 
Till the spell was complete and in July's 
heat 

Appeared December's snow ; 
But Cessford's Halbert never came 

The wondrous cause to know. 

* For years before in Bowden aisle 

The warrior's bones had lain, no 

And after short while by female guile 
3ir Michael Scott was slain. 



* But me and my brethren in this cell 

His mighty charms retain, — 
And he that can quell the powerful spell 

Shall o'er broad Scotland reign.' 

He led him through an iron door 

And up a winding stair. 
And in wild amaze did the wanderer gaze 

On the sight which opened there. 12c 

Through the gloomy night flashed ruddy 
light, 

A thousand torches glow ; 
The cave rose high, like the vaulted sky, 

O'er stalls in double row. 

In every stall of that endless hall 
Stood a steed in barding bright ; 

At the foot of each steed, all armed save I 
the head, 
Lay stretched a stalwart knight. 

In each mailed hand was a naked brand ; 

As they lay on the black bull's hide, 130' 
Each visage stern did upwards turn 

With eyeballs fixed and wide. 

A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long, 

By every warrior hung ; 
At each pommel there for battle yare 

A Jedwood axe was slung. 

The casque hung near each cavalier ; 

The plumes waved mournfully 
At every tread which the wanderer made 

Through the hall of gramarye. 140 

The ruddy beam of the torches' gleam, 

That glared the warriors on. 
Reflected light from armor bright. 

In noontide splendor shone. 

And onward seen in lustre sheen. 

Still lengthening on the sight. 
Through the boundless hall stood steeds in 
stall. 

And by each lay a sable knight. 

Still as the dead lay each horseman dread, 
And moved nor limb nor tongue; 150 

Each steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff, 
Nor hoof nor bridle rung. 

No sounds through all the spacious hall 
The deadly still divide, 



FREDERICK AND ALICE 



25 



Save where echoes aloof from the vaulted 
roof 
To the wanderer's step replied. 

At length before his wondering eyes, 

On an iron column borne, 
Of antique shape and giant size 

Appeared a sword and horn. i6o 

< Now choose thee here,' quoth his leader, 

< Thy venturous fortune try; 
Thy woe and weal, thy boot and bale, 

In yon brand and bugle lie.' 

To the fatal brand he mounted his hand. 
But his soul did quiver and quail ; 

The life-blood did start to his shuddering 
heart. 
And left him wan and pale. 

The brand he forsook, and the horn he 
took 

To 'say a gentle sound ; 170 

But so wild a blast from the bugle brast 

That the Cheviot rocked around. 

From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas. 

The awful bugle rung ; 
On Carlisle wall and Berwick withal 

To arms the warders sprung. 

With clank and clang the cavern rang. 
The steeds did stamp and neigh; 

And loud was the yell as each warrior 
fell 
Sterte up with whoop and cry. 180 

* Woe, woe,' they cried, * thou caitiff cow- 
ard. 

That ever thou wert born ! 
Why drew ye not the knightly sword 

Before ye blew the horn ? ' 

The morning on the mountain shone 

And on the bloody ground, 
Hurled from the cave with shivered bone. 

The mangled wretch was found. 



And still beneath the cavern dread 

Among the glidders gray, 
A shapeless stone with lichens spread 

Marks where the wanderer lay. 



igo 



CHEVIOT 

A FRAGMENT 

1799 



Go sit old Cheviot's crest below. 
And pensive mark the lingering snow 

In all his scaurs abide. 
And slow dissolving from the hill 
In many a sightless, soundless rill. 

Feed sparkling Bowmont's tide. 

Fair shines the stream by bank and lea, 
As wimpling to the eastern sea 

She seeks Till's sullen bed, 
Indenting deep the fatal plain 
Where Scotland's noblest, brave in vain, 

Around their monarch bled. 

And westward hills on hills you see. 
Even as old Ocean's mightiest sea 

Heaves high her waves of foam. 
Dark and snow -ridged from Cutsfeld'j 

w^old 
To the proud foot of Cheviot rolled. 

Earth's mountain billows come. 



FREDERICK AND ALICE 

This tale, written in 1801, and published in 
Tales of Wonder^ is imitated, rather than 
translated, says Scott, ' from a fragment intro- 
duced in Goethe's " Claudina von Villa Bella," 
where it is sung by a member of a gang of 
banditti, to engage the attention of the family, 
while his companions break into the castle.' 

Frederick leaves the land of France, 
Homeward hastes his steps to measure. 

Careless casts the parting glance 
On the scene of former pleasure. 

Joying in his prancing steed, 

Keen to prove his untried blade, 

Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead 
Over mountain, moor, and glade. 

Helpless, ruined, left forlorn, 

Lovely Alice wept alone, 10 

Mourned o'er love's fond contract torn, 

Hope, and peace, and honor llown. 



26 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



Mark her breast's convulsive throbs ! 

See, the tear of anguish flows ! — 
Mingling soon with bursting sobs, 

Loud the laugh of frenzy rose. 

Wild she cursed, and wild she prayed ; 

Seven long days and nights are o'er: 
Death in pity brought his aid, 

As the village bell struck four. 20 

Far from her, and far from France, 
Faithless Frederick onward rides ; 

Marking blithe the morning's glance 
Mantling o'er the mountains' sides. 

Heard ye not the boding sound. 
As the tongue of yonder tower. 

Slowly to the hills aroimd 

Told the fourth, the fated hour ? 

Starts the steed and snuffs the air. 

Yet no cause of dread appears ; 30 

Bristles high the rider's hair. 

Struck with strange mysterious fears. 

Desperate, as his terrors rise. 
In the steed the spur he hides; 

From himself in vain he flies; 
Anxious, restless, on he rides. 

Seven long days and seven long nights. 
Wild he w^andered, woe the while ! 

Ceaseless care and causeless fright 

Urge his footsteps many a mile. 40 

Dark the seventh sad night descends ; 

Rivers swell and rain-streams pour, 
While the deafening thunder lends 

All the terrors of its roar. 

Weary, wet, and spent with toil. 

Where his head shall Frederick hide ? 

Where, but in yon ruined aisle. 
By the lightning's flash descried. 

To the portal, dank and low. 

Fast his steed the wanderer bound : 50 
Down a ruined staircase slow, 

Next his darkling way he wound. 

Long drear vaults before him lie ! 

Glimmering lights are seen to glide ! — 
* Blessed Mary, hear my cry ! 

Deign a sinner's steps to guide 1 ' 



Often lost their quivering beam, 
Still the lights move slow before, 

Till they rest their ghastly gleam 

Right against an iron door. 60 



i 



I 



Thundering voices from within. 

Mixed with peals of laughter, rose ; 

As they fell, a solemn strain 

Lent its wild and wondrous close ! 

Midst the din he seemed to hear 

Voice of friends, by death removed; — 

Well he knew that solemn air, 

'T was the lay that Alice loved. — 



Hark ! for now a solemn knell 

Four times on the still night broke; 70 
Four times at its deaden'd swell. 

Echoes from the ruins spoke. 

As the lengthened clangors die. 

Slowly opes the iron door ! 
Straight a banquet met his eye, 

But a funeral's form it wore ! 

Coffins for the seats extend; 

All with black the board was spread ; 
Girt by parent, brother, friend, 

Long since number'd with the dead ! 80 

Alice, in her grave-clothes bound. 
Ghastly smiling, points a seat ; 

All arose with thundering sound ; 
All the expected stranger greet. 

High their meagre arms they wave, 
Wild their notes of welcome swell ; — 

' Welcome, traitor, to the grave ! 
Perjured, bid the light farewell ! ' 



CADYOW CASTLE 

ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 
LADY ANNE HAMILTON 

This ballad was written in 1801 and included 
in the third volume of Minstrelsy of the Scot- 
tish Border. 

When princely Hamilton's abode 
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, 

The song went round, the goblet flowed, 
And revel sped the laughing hours. 



CADYOW CASTLE 



27 



Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, 
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, 

And echoed light the dancer's bound. 
As mirth and music cheered the hall. 

But Cadyow's towers in ruins laid, 

And vaults by ivy mantled o'er, 10 

Thrill to the music of the shade, 
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 

Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame 
You bid me tell a minstrel tale, 

And tune my harp of Border frame 
On the wild banks of Evandale. 

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride. 
From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst 
turn, 

To draw oblivion's pall aside 

And mark the long-forgotten urn. 20 

Then, noble maid ! at thy command 
Again the crumbled halls shall rise ; 

Lo ! as on Evan's banks we stand, 
The past returns — the present flies. 

Where with the rock's wood-covered side 
Were blended late the ruins green, 

Rise turrets in fantastic pride 

And feudal banners flaunt between : 

Where the rude torrent's brawling course 
Was shagged with thorn and tangling 
sloe, 30 

The ashler buttress braves its force 
And ramparts frown in battled row. 

'T is night — the shade of keep and spire 
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream ; 

And on the wave the warder's fire 
Is checkering the moonlight beam. 

Fades slow their light ; the east is gray ; 

The weary warder leaves his tower ; 
Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds bay. 

And merry hunters quit the bower. 40 

The drawbridge falls — they hurry out — 
Clatters each plank and swinging chain. 

As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout 

Urge the shy steed and slack the rein. 

First of his troop, the chief rode on ; 

His shouting merry-men throng behind ; 



The steed of princely Hamilton 

Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 

From the thick copse the roebucks bound, 
The startled red-deer scuds the plain, 50 

For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound 
Has roused their mountain haunts again. 

Through the huge oaks of Evandale, 

Whose limbs a thousand years have worn, 

What sullen roar comes down the gale 
And drowns the hunter's pealing horn ? 

Mightiest of all the beasts of chase 

That roam in woody Caledon, 
Crashing the forest in his race, 59 

The Mountain Bull comes thundering on. 

Fierce on the hunter's quivered band 
He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow. 

Spurns with black hoof and horn the sand, 
And tosses high his mane of snow. 

Aimed well the chieftain's lance has flown ; 

Struggling in blood the savage lies ; 
His roar is sunk in hollow groan — 

Sound, merry huntsmen ! sound the 
pryse ! 

'T is noon — against the knotted oak 

The hunters rest the idle spear ; 70 

Curls through the trees the slender smoke, 
Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer. 

Proudly the chieftain marked his clan, 
On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 

Yet missed his eye the boldest man 
That bore the name of Hamilton. 

' Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, 
Still wont our weal and woe to share ? 

Why comes he not our sport to grace ? 
Why shares he not our hunter's fare ? ' So 

Stern Claud replied with darkening face — 
Gray Paisley's haughty lord was he — 

* At merry feast or buxom chase 

No more the warrior wilt thou see. 

* Few suns have set since Woodhouselee 

Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets 
foam. 
When to his hearths in social glee 

The war-worn soldier turned him home. 



2S 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



' There, wan from her maternal throes. 
His Margaret, beantifiil and mild, 90 

Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, 

And peaceful nursed her new-bom child. 

* O change accursed ! past are those dairs ; 

False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 
And, for the hearth's domestic blaze. 
Ascends destruction's Tolumed flame. 

* What sheeted phantom wanders wild 

Where mountain Eske through woodland 
flows. 
Her arms enfold a shadowy child — 

O ! is it she, the pallid rose ? 100 

* The wildered traveller sees her glide, 

And hears her feeble voice with awe — 
" Revenge," she cries, " on MuiTa3r*s pride ! 
And woe for injured Bothwellhisuigh ! ** ' 

He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
Burst mingling from the kindred band. 

And half arose the kindling chief, 

And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 

But who o'er bush, o'er stream and rock^ 
Rides headlong ^vith resistless speed, no 

Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
Drives to lie leap his jaded steed ; 

Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, 
As one some visioned sight that saw. 

Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair ? — 
T is he ! 't is he ! 't is Bothwellhaugh. 

From gory selle and reeling steed 

Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound. 

And, reeking from the recent deed, 

He dashed his carbine on the ground. 120 

Sternly be spoke — * *T is sweet to hear 
In good greenwood the bugle blown, 

Bat sweeter to Revenge's ear 
To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 

* Your slaughtered quarry proudly trode 

At dawning morn o'er dale and down, 
But prouder base-born Murray rode 

Through old Linlithgow's crowded town. 

* From the wild Border's humbled side, 

In haughty triumph marched he, 130 

While Knox relaxed his bigot pride 
And smiled the traitorous pomp to see. 



' But can stem Power, with all his Taont, 
Or Pomp, with all her oourtlj glare, 

The settled heart of Vengeance daont. 
Or change the purpose of Despair ? 

* With hackbut bent, my secret stand. 

Dark as the purposed deed, I chose. 
And marked where mingling in his baud 
Trooped Scottish pipes and English 
bows. 140 

*' Dark Morton, girt with many a spear. 
Murder's foul minion, led the van ; 

And clashed their broadswords in the 
rear 
The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. 

< Glencaim and stout Parkhead were nigh. 
Obsequious at their Regent's rein. 

And haggard Lindesay's iron eye. 
That saw fair Mary weep in Tain. 

* Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove, 149 

Frond Murray's plumage floated high; 
Scarce could his trampling charger move. 
So dose the minions crowded nigh. 

* From the raised Tusor's shade his eye, 

Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along. 
And his steel truncheon, waved on high. 
Seemed marshalling the iron throng. 

' But yet his saddened brow confessed 
A passing shade of doubt and awe ; 

Some fiend was whispering in his breast, 
** Beware of injured BothweUhangh ! " 160 

* The death - shot parts ! the charger 

springs ; 
"Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! 
And Murray's plumy helmet rings — 
Rings on the ground to rise no more. 

* What joy the raptured youth can feel. 

To hear her love the loved one tell — 
Or he who broaches on his steel 
The wolf by whom his infant fell ! 

* But dearer to my injured eye 

To see in dust proud ^lurray roll ; 170 
And mine was ten times trebled joy 
To hear him groan his felon souL 

' My Margaret's spectre glided near. 
With pride her bleeding victim saw, 



THE REIVER'S WEDDING 



29 



And shrieked in liis death-deafened ear, 
" Remember injured Bothwellhaugh ! " 

* Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault ! 

Spread to the wind thy bannered tree ! 
Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow! — 
Murray is fallen and Scotland free! ' 180 

Vaults every warrior to his steed ; 

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — 

* Murray is fallen and Scotland freed ! 

Couch, Arran, couch thy spear of flame ! ' 

But see ! the minstrel vision fails — 

The glimmering spears are seen no 
more ; 

The shouts of war die on the gales, 
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. 

For the loud bugle pealing high. 

The blackbird whistles down the vale, 190 
And sunk in ivied ruins lie 

The bannered towers of Evandale. 

For chiefs intent on bloody deed, 

And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain, 

Lo ! high-born Beauty rules the steed. 
Or graceful guides the silken rein. 

And long may Peace and Pleasure own 
The maids who list the minstrel's tale ; 

Nor e'er a ruder guest be known 

On the fair banks of Evandale ! 200 



THE REIVER'S WEDDING 

A FRAGMENT 
1802 

0, WILL ye hear a mirthful bourd ? 

Or will ye hear of courtesie ? 
Or will ye hear how a gallant lord 

Was wedded to a gay ladye ? 

* Ca' out the kye,' quo' the village herd, 

As he stood on the knowe, 

* Ca' this ane 's nine and that ane 's ten. 

And bauld Lord William's cow.' 

' Ah ! by my sooth,' quoth William then, 
* And stands it that way now, ic 

When knave and churl have nine and ten, 
That the lord has but his cow ? 



* I swear by the light of the Michaelmas 

moon. 
And the might of Mary high, 
And by the edge of my braidsword brown, 
They shall soon say Harden 's kye.' 

He took a bugle frae his side. 

With names carved o'er and o'er — 

Full many a chief of meikle pride 

That Border bugle bore — 20 

He blew a note baith sharp and hie 
Till rock and water ran around — 

Threescore of moss-troopers and three 
Have mounted at that bugle sound. 

The Michaelmas moon had entered then, 

And ere she wan the full 
Ye might see by her light in Harden 
glen 

A bow o' kye and a bassened bull. 

And loud and loud in Harden tower 

The quaigh gaed round wi' meikle glee ; 

For the English beef was brought in 
bower 31 

And the English ale flowed merrilie. 

And mony a guest from Teviotside 
And Yarrow's braes was there ; 

Was never a lord in Scotland wide 
That made more dainty fare. 

They ate, they laughed, they sang and 
quaffed. 
Till naught on board was seen, 
When knight and squire were boune to 
dine. 
But a spur of silver sheen. 40 

Lord William has ta'en his berry-brown 
steed — 
A sore shent man was he ; 

* Wait ye, my guests, a little speed — 

Weel feasted ye shall be.' 

He rode him down by Falsehope burn, 

His cousin dear to Gee, 
With him to take a riding turn — 

Wat-draw-the-Sword was he. 

And when ho came to Falsehope glen, 
Beneath the trysting-tree, sd 

On the smooth green was carved plain, 
* To Lochwood bound are we.' 



30 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



* O, if they be gane to dark Lochwood 

To drive the Warden's gear, 
Betwixt our names, I ween, there 's feud ; 
I '11 go and have my share : 

* For little reck I for Johnstone's feud, 

The Warden though he be.' 
So Lord William is away to dark Loch- 
wood 
With riders barely three. 60 

The Warden's daughters in Lochwood sate, 

Were all both fair and gay. 
All save the Lady Margaret, 

And she was wan and wae. 

The sister Jean had a full fair skin, 
And Grace was bauld and braw ; 

But the leal-fast heart her breast within 
It weel was worth them a'. 

Her father 's pranked her sisters twa 

With meikle joy and pride ; 70 

But Margaret maun seek Dundrennan's 
wa' — 
She ne'er can be a bride. 

On spear and casque by gallants gent 
Her sisters' scarfs were borne. 

But never at tilt or tournament 
Were Margaret's colors worn. 

Her sisters rode to Thirlstane bower, 

But she was left at hame 
To wander round the gloomy tower. 

And sigh young Harden's name 80 

* Of all the knights, the knight most fair 

From Yarrow to the Tyne,' 
Soft sighed the maid, *is Harden's heir, 
But ne'er can he be mine ; 

* Of all the maids, the foulest maid 

From Teviot to the Dee, 
Ah ! ' sighing sad, that lady said, 
* Can ne'er young Harden's be.' 

She looked up the briery glen, 

And up the mossy brae, 90 

And she saw a score of her father's men 

Yclad in the Johnstone gray. 

O, fast and fast they downwards sped 
The moss and briers among, 



And in the midst the troopers led 
A shackled knight along. 



CHRISTIE'S WILL 

The origin of this ballad is thus delivered by 
Scott : ' In the reign of Charles I., when the 
moss-trooping practices were not entirely dis- 
continued, the tower of Gilnockie, in the parish 
of Cannoby, was occupied by William Arm- 
strong, called, for distinction's sake, Christie's 
Will, a lineal descendant of the famous John 
Armstrong, of Gilnockie, executed by James V. 
The hereditary love of plunder had descended 
to this person with the family mansion ; and 
upon some marauding" party, he was seized, and 
imprisoned in the tolbooth of Jedburgh. The 
Earl of Traquair, Lord High Treasurer, hap- 
pening to visit Jedburgh, and knowing Chris- 
tie's Will, inquired the cause of his confinement. 
Will replied, he was imprisoned for stealing 
two tethers (halters) ; but, upon being more 
closely interrogated, acknowledged that there 
were two delicate colts at the end of them. The 
joke, such as it was, amused the Earl, who 
exerted his interest, and succeeded in releasing 
Christie's Will from bondage. Some time 
afterwards, a lawsuit, of importance to Lord 
Traquair, was to be decided in the Court of 
Session ; and there was every reason to believe 
that the judgment would turn upon the voice 
of the presiding judge, who has a casting vote, 
in case of an equal division among his brethren. 
The opinion of the president was unfavorable 
to Lord Traquair ; and the point was, therefore, 
to keep him out of the way when the question 
should be tried. In this dilemma, the Earl had 
recourse to Christie's Will ; who, at once, of- 
fered his service to kidnap the president. Upon 
due scrutiny, he found it was the judge's prac- 
tice frequently to take the air, on horseback, 
on the sands of Leith, without an attendant. 
In one of these excursions, Christie's Will, who 
had long watched his opportunity, ventured to 
accost the president, and engage him in con- 
versation. His address and language were so 
amusing, that he decoyed the president into an 
unfrequented and furzy common, called the 
Frigate Whins, where, riding suddenly up to 
him, he pulled him from his horse, muffled 
him in a large cloak, which he had provided, 
and rode off, with the luckless judge trussed 
up behind him. Will crossed the country with 
great expedition, by paths known only to per- 
sons of his description, and deposited his weary 
and terrified burden in an old castle, in Annan- 
dale, called the Tower of Graham. The judge's 
horse being found, it was concluded he had 



CHRISTIE'S WILL 



31 



thrown his rider into the sea ; his friends went 
into mourning, and a successor was appointed 
to his office. Meanwhile, the poor president 
spent a hea\&y time in the vault of the castle. 
He was imprisoned, and solitary ; receiving his 
food through an aperture in the wall, and never 
hearing the sound of a human voice, save when 
a shepherd called his dog, by the name of 
Batty ^ and when a female domestic called upon 
Maudge, the cat. These, he concluded, were 
invocations of spirits ; for he held himself to 
be in the dungeon of a sorcerer. At length, 
after three months had elapsed, the lawsuit was 
decided in favor of Lord Traquair ; and Will 
was directed to set the president at liberty. 
Accordingly, he entered the vault at dead of 
night, seized the president, muffled him once 
more in the cloak, without speaking a single 
word, and, using the same mode of transpor- 
tation, conveyed him to Leith sands, and set 
down the astonished judge on the very spot 
where he had taken him up. The joy of his 
friends, and the less agreeable surprise of his 
successor, may be easily conceived, when he 
appeared in court, to reclaim his office and 
honors. All embraced his own persuasion, 
that he had been spirited away by witchcraft ; 
nor could he himself be convinced of the con- 
trary, until, many years afterwards, happening 
to travel in Annandale, his ears were saluted 
once more with the sounds of Maudge and 
Batty — the only notes which had solaced his 
long confinement. This led to a discovery 
of the whole story; but, in those disorderly 
times, it was only laughed at, as a fair ruse de 
guerre. 

* Wild and strange as this tradition may 
seem, there is little doubt of its foundation in 
fact. The judge, upon whose person this ex- 
traordinary stratagem was practised, was Sir 
Alexander Gibson, Lord Durie, collector of the 
reports, well known in the Scottish law, under 
the title of Durie^s Decisions. He was ad- 
vanced to the station of an ordinary Lord of 
Session, 10th July, 1621, and died, at his own 
house of Durie, July, 1646. Betwixt these 
periods this whimsical adventure must have 
happened ; a date which corresponds with that 
of the tradition.' . . . 

The ballad thus patched and embroidered 
was included by Scott in that section of Min- 
strelsy of the Scottish Border, which was given to 
modem imitations. The date may be set down 
aa 1802. 

Traquair has ridden up Chapelhope, 
And sae has he down by the Grey Mare's 
Tail; 

He never stinted the light galh)p, 
Until he speered for Christie's Will. 



Now Christie's Will peeped frae the tower, 
And out at the shot-hole keeked he ; 

* And ever unlucky,' quo' he, * is the hour, 

That the Warden comes to speer for 
me!' 

* Good Christie's Will, now, have nae fear ! 

Nae harm, good Will, shall hap to thee : 
I saved thy life at the Jeddart air, n 

At the Jeddart air frae the justice tree. 

* Bethink how ye sware, by the salt and the 

bread. 
By the lightning, the wind, and the rain, 
That if ever of Christie's Will I had need, 
He would pay me my service again.' 

* Gramercy, my lord,' quo' Christie's Will, 

< Gramercy, my lord, for your grace to 

me ! 
When I turn my cheek, and claw my 

neck, 
I think of Traquair and the Jeddart 

tree.' 20 

And he has opened the fair tower yate. 
To Traquair and a' his companie ; 

The spule o' the deer on the board he has 
set. 
The fattest that ran on the Hutton Lee. 

* Now, wherefore sit ye sad, my lord ? 

And wherefore sit ye mournfullie ? 
And why eat ye not of the venison I 
shot. 
At the dead of night on Hutton Lee ? ' 

* O weel may I stint of feast and sport, 

And in my mind be vexed sair ! 30 

A vote of the canker 'd Session Court, 
Of land and living will make me bare. 

* But if auld Durie to heaven were flown. 

Or if auld Durie to hell were gane, 
Or ... if he could be but ten days 

stoun . . . 
My bonny braid lands would still be my 

ain.' 

* O, mony a time, my lord,' he said, 

* I 've stown the horse frae the sleeping 
loon ; 
But for you I '11 steal a beast as braid, 
For I '11 steal Lord Durie frae Edinburgh 

toUU. 4c 



32 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



*0, mony a time, my lord,' he said, 

* I've stowu a kiss f rae a sleeping wench ; 
But for you I '11 do as kittle a deed, 

For I '11 steal an auld lurdane a£E the 
bench.' 

And Christie's Will is to Edinburgh gane ; 

At the Borough Muir then entered he ; 
And as he passed the gallow-stane, 

He crossed his brow and he bent his 
knee. 

He lighted at Lord Durie's door, 49 

And there he knocked most manfullie ; 
And up and spake Lord Durie sae stour, 

* What tidings, thou stalward groom, to 

me?' 

* The fairest lady in Teviotdale 

Has sent, maist reverent sir, for thee ; 
She pleas at the Session for her land, a' 
haill, 
And fain she wad plead her cause to 
thee.' 

* But how can I to that lady ride, 

With saving of my dignitie ? ' 

* O a curch and mantle ye may wear, 

And in my cloak ye sail muffled be.' 60 

Wi' curch on head, and cloak ower face. 
He mounted the judge on a palfrey fyne ; 

He rode away, a right round pace. 

And Christie's Will held the bridle reyn. 

The Lothian Edge they were not o'er. 
When they heard bugles bauldly ring. 

And, hunting over Middleton Moor, 
They met, I ween, our noble King. 

When Willie looked upon our King, 

I wot a frighted man was he ! 70 

But ever auld Durie was startled mair, 
For tyning of his dignitie. 

The King he crossed himself, iwis. 
When as the pair came riding bye — 

* An uglier crone, and a sturdier loon, 

I think, were never seen with eye ! ' 

Willie has hied to the tower of Graeme, 
He took auld Durie on his back, 

He shot him down to the dungeon deep. 
Which garred his auld banes gie mony a 
crack. 80 



For nineteen days, and nineteen nights, 
Of sun, or moon, or midnight stern, 

Auld Durie never saw a blink, 

The lodging was sae dark and dern. 

He thought the warlocks o' the rosy cross, 
Had fanged him in their nets sae fast ; 

Or that the gipsies' glamoured gang 
Had laired his learning at the last. 

* Hey ! Batty, lad ! far yaud ! far yaud ! ' 

These were the morning sounds heard 
he ; 90 

And ever * Alack ! ' auld Durie cried, 

* The de'il is hounding his tykes on 
me ! ' — 

And whiles a voice on Baudrons cried. 
With sound uncouth, and sharp, and hie ; 

* I have tar-barrelled mony a witch, 

But now, I think, they'll clear scores wi' 
me !' 

The King has caused a bill be wrote, 
And he has set it on the Tron, — 

* He that will bring Lord Durie back, 99 

Shall have five hundred merks and one.' 

Traquair has written a privie letter, 
And he has sealed it wi' his seal, — 

* Ye may let the auld brock out o' the 

poke ; 
The land 's my ain, and a's gane weel.' 

O Will has mounted his bonny black. 
And to the tower of Graeme did trudge, 

And once again, on his sturdy back. 
Has he hente up the weary judge. 

He brought him to the council stairs, 
And there full loudly shouted he, no 

* Gie me my guerdon, my sovereign liege, 

And take ye back your auld Durie ! ' 



THOMAS THE RHYMER 

When Scott was engaged upon the Minstrelsy 
of the Scottish Border, he had a long and an- 
imated correspondence with the antiquarians 
Leyden and Ellis, over the productions of 
Thomas of Ereildoune, known by the appel- 
lation of The Rhymer. He purposed, at first, 
including the ballad of Sir Tristrem in the Min- 
strelsy, but the material illustrative and inter- 
pretative of it swelled to such dimensions that 



THOMAS THE RHYMER 



33 



he finally issued in 1804, after the Minstrelsy had 
been completed, TAe Metrical Romance of Sir 
Tristrem. Meanwhile, he had included in the 
Minstrelsy the following ballads under the gen- 
eral head of Thomas the Rhymer, Although 
the third only is wholly Scott's, it seems best 
to print in their sequence Part First, which 
is a traditional version, Part Second, which 
is altered from ancient prophesies, and Part 
Third, which is modern and Scott's own. 



PART FIRST 
TRADITIONAL VERSION 

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; 

A ferlie he spied wi* his ee ; 
And there he saw a ladye bright, 

Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. 

Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, 
Her mantle o* the velvet fyne ; 

At ilka tett of her horse's mane. 
Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 

True Thomas, he pulled aff his cap. 

And louted low down to his knee, lo 

* All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven ! 

For thy peer on earth I never did see.' — 

* O no, O no, Thomas,' she said, 

* That name does not belang to me ; 
I am but the queen of fair Elfland, 

That am hither come to visit thee. 

*Harp and carp, Thomas,' she said; 

* Harp and carp along wi' me ; 
And if ye dare to kiss my lips, 

Sure of your bodie I will be.' — 20 

* Betide me weal, betide me woe, 

That weird shall never daunton me.' — 
Syne he has kissed her rosy lips, 
All underneath the Eildon Tree. 

* Now, ye maun go wi' me,' she said ; 

* True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me ; 
And ye maun serve me seven years. 

Thro' weal or woe as may chance to 
be.' 

She mounted on her milk-white steed ; 

She 's ta'en true Thomas up behind : 30 
And aye, whene'er her bridle rung. 

The steed flew swifter than the wind. 



O they rade on, and farther on ; 

The steed gaed swifter than the wind ; 
Until they reached a desert wide. 

And living land was left behind. 

* Light down, light down, now, true 

Thomas, 
And lean your head upon my knee ; 
Abide and rest a little space, 

And I will shew you ferlies three. 40 

* O see ye not yon narrow road, 

So thick beset with thorns and briers ? 
That is the path of righteousness. 
Though after it but few enquires. 

* And see ye not that braid braid road, 

That lies across that lily leven ? 
That is the path of wickedness, 

Though some call it the road to heaven. 



* And see not ye that bonny road, 
That winds about the fernie brae ? 

That is the road to fair Elfland, 
Where thou and I this night maun gae. 



50 



* But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue. 

Whatever ye may hear or see ; 
For, if you speak word in Elflyn land. 
Ye '11 ne'er get back to your ain coun- 
trie.' 

they rade on, and farther on. 

And they waded through rivers aboon 
the knee. 
And they saw neither sun nor moon. 

But they heard the roaring of the sea. 60 

It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae 
stern light, 
And they waded through red blude to 
the knee ; 
For a' the blude that 's shed on earth 

Bins through the springs o' that countrie. 

Syne they came on to a garden green. 
And she pu'd an apple f rae a tree — 

*Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; 
It will give thee the tongue that can 
never lie.' 

* My tongue is mine ain,' true Thomas said ; 

* A gudely gift ye wad gie to me ! 70 

1 neither dought to buy nor sell. 
At fair or tryst where I may be. 



34 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



' I dought neither speak to prince or peer, 
Xor ask of grace from fair ladve.' 

* Xow hold thy peace ! ' the lady said, 
' For as I say, so must it be.' 

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, 
And a pair of shoes of velvet green ; 

And till seven years were gane and past, 
True Thomas on earth was never seen. So 



PART SECOND 
ALTERED FROM ANXIEXT PROPHECIES 

When seven years were come and gane. 
The sun blinked fair on pool and stream ; 

And Thomas lay on Huntlie bank. 
Like one awakened from a dream. 

He heard the trampling of a steed, 
He saw the flash of armor flee. 

And he beheld a gallant knight 

Come riding down by the Eildon-Tree. 

He was a stalwart knight, and strong ; 

Of giant make he 'peared to be : lo 

He stirred his horse, as he were wode, 

Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free. 

Says — * Well met, well met, true Thomas ! 

Some uncouth ferlies show to me.' 
Says — * Christ thee save, Corspatrick 
brave 

Thrice welcume, good Dunbar, to me ! 

* Light down, light down, Corspatrick 

brave ! 
And I will show thee curses three, 
Shall gar fair Scotland greet and grane. 
And change the green to the black 

livery. 20 

* A storm shall roar this very hour. 

From Ross's Hills to Sol way sea; ' 

* Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar ! 

For the sun shines sweet on fauld and 
lea.' 

He put his hand on the Earlie's head ; 

He showed him a rock beside the sea, 
Where a king lay stiff beneath his steed, 

And steel-dight nobles wiped their ee. 



* The neist curse lights on Branxton hills : 
By Flodden's high and heathery side, 30 

Shall wave a banner red as blude, 

And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride. 



* A Scottish King shall come full keen, 

The ruddy lion beareth he ; 
A feathered arrow sharp, I ween, 

Shall make him wink and warre to see. 



I 



* When he is bloody, and all to bledde. 

Thus to his men he still shall say — 
" For God's sake, turn ye back again, 

And give yon southern folk a fray ! 40 
Why should I lose the right is mine ? 

My doom is not to die this day." 

* Yet turn ye to the eastern hand, 

And woe and wonder ye sail see ; 
How forty thousand spearmen stand. 
Where yon rank river meets the sea. 

* There shall the lion lose the gylte. 

And the libbards bear it clean away ; 
At Pinkyn Clench there shall be spilt 
Much gentil bluid that day.' 50 

* Enough, enough, of curse and ban ; 

Some blessings show thou now to me, 
Or, by the faith o' my bodie,' Corspatrick 
said, 

* Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me ! * 

* The first of blessings I shall thee show, 

Is by a burn, that 's called of bread ; 
Where Saxon men shall tine the bow. 
And fijid their arrows lack the head. 

* Beside that brigg, out ower that burn. 

Where the water bickereth bright and 
sheen 60 

Shall many a falling courser spurn, 
And knights shall die in battle keen. 

* Beside a headless cross of stone. 

The libbards there shall lose the gree; 
The raven shall come, the erne shall go, 

And drink the Saxon bluid sae free. 
The cross of stone they shall not know, 

So thick the corses there shall be.' 

* But tell me now,' said brave Dunbar, 

* True Thomas, tell now unto me, 70 



THOMAS THE RHYMER 



35 



What .man shall rule the isle Britain, 
Even from the north to the southern 
sea?' 

* A French Queen shall bear the son, 

Shall rule all Britain to the sea ; 

He of the Bruce's blood shall come. 

As near as in the ninth degree. 

* The waters worship shall his race ; 

Likewise the waves of the farthest 
sea; 
For they shall ride over ocean wide, 79 

With hempen bridles, and horse of tree.' 



PART THIRD 



When seven 



more were come and 



years 
gone, 
Was war through Scotland spread, 
And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon 
His beacon blazing red. 

Then all by bonny Coldingknow, 
Pitched palliouns took their room, 

And crested helms, and spears a-rowe, 
Glanced gaily through the broom. 

The Leader, rolling to the Tweed, 

Resounds the ensenzie; 10 

They roused the deer from Caddenhead, 
To distant Torwoodlee. 

The feast was spread in Ercildoune, 
In Learmont's high and ancient hall: 

And there were knights of great renown, 
And ladies, laced in pall. 

Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine, 

The music nor the tale. 
Nor goblets of the blood-red wine, 

Nor mantling quaighs of ale. 20 

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, 

When as the feast was done: 
(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, 

The elfin harp he won.) 

Hushed were the throng, both limb and 
tongue, 

And harpers for envy pale; 
And armed lords leaned on their swords, 

And hearkened to the tale. 



In numbers high, the witching tale 

The prophet poured along; 30 

No after bard might e'er avail 
Those numbers to prolong. 

Yet fragments of the lofty strain 

Float down the tide of years, 
As, buoyant on the stormy main, 

A parted wreck appears. 

He sung King Arthur's Table Round: 

The Warrior of the Lake; 
How courteous Gawaine met the wound. 

And bled for ladies' sake. 40 

But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, 

The notes melodious swell; 
Was none excelled in Arthur's days. 

The knight of Lionelle. 

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right, 

A venomed wound he bore; 
When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, 

Upon the Irish shore. 

No art the poison might withstand; 

No medicine could be found, 50 

Till lovely Isolde's lily hand 

Had probed the rankling wound. 

With gentle hand and soothing tongue 

She bore the leech's part; 
And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung, 

He paid her with his heart. 

O fatal was the gift, I ween ! 

For, doomed in evil tide. 
The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, 

His cowardly uncle's bride. 60 

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard 

In fairy tissue wove; 
Where lords, and knights, and ladies 
bright. 

In gay confusion strove. 

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale. 
High reared its glittering head; 

And Avalon's enchanted vale 
In all its wonders spread. 



Brangwain was there, and Segraniore, 
And fiend-born Merlin's graniarye; 

Of that famed wizard's mighty lore, 
O who could sing but he ? 



70 



36 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



Through many a maze the winning song 

In changeful passion led, 
Till bent at length the listening throng 

O'er Tristrem's dying bed. 

His ancient wounds their scars expand, 

With agony his heart is wrung: 
O where is Isolde's lilye hand, 

And where her soothing tongue ? 80 

She comes ! she comes ! — like flash of 
flame 

Can lovers- footsteps fly: 
She comes ! she comes ! — she only came 

To see her Tristrem die. 

She saw him die; her latest sigh 
Joined in a kiss his parting breath ; 

The gentlest pair, that Britain bare. 
United are in death. 

There paused the harp: its lingering sound 
Died slowly on the ear; 90 

The silent guests still bent around, 
For still they seemed to hear. 

Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak. 
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh ; 

But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek 
Did many a gauntlet dry. 

On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower, 

The mists of evening close; 
In camp, in castle, or in bower, 

Each warrior sought repose. 100 

Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent, 

Dreamed o'er the woful tale; 
When footsteps light, across the bent, 

The warrior's ear assail. 

He starts, he wakes; — * What, Richard, ho! 

Arise, my page, arise ! 
What venturous wight, at dead of night, 

Dare step where Douglas lies ! ' — 

Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide, 
A selcouth sight they see — no 

A hart and hind pace side by side, 
As white as snow on Fairnalie. 

Beneath the moon, with gesture proud. 
They stately move and slow; | 



Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, 
Who marvel as they go. 

To Learmont's tower a message sped. 

As fast as page might run ; 
And Thomas started from his bed, 

And soon his clothes did on. i2<? 

First he woxe pale, and then woxe red ; 

Never a word he spake but three ; — 
*My sand is run; my thread is spun; 

This sign regardeth me.' 

The elfin harp his neck around, 

In minstrel guise, he hung; 
And on the wind, in doleful sound, 

Its dying accents rung. 

Then forth he went; yet turned him oft 
To view his ancient hall: 130 

On the grey tower, in lustre soft, 
The autumn moonbeams fall; 

And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, 
Danced shimmering in the ray; 

In deepening mass, at distance seen, 
Broad Soltra's mountains lay. 

* Farewell, my father's ancient tower ! 

A long farewell,' said he: 

* The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power. 

Thou never more shalt be. 140 

* To Learmont's name no foot of earth 

Shall here again belong. 
And, on thy hospitable hearth, 
The hare shall leave her young. 

* Adieu ! adieu ! ' again he cried, 

All as he turned him roun' — 
' Farewell to Leader's silver tide ! 
Farewell to Ercildoune ! ' 

The hart and hind approached the place, 
As lingering yet he stood ; 150 

And there, before Lord Douglas' face, 
With them he crossed the flood. 

Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown 
steed. 

And spurred him the Leader o'er; 
But, though he rode with lightning speed, 

He never saw them more. 



HELLVELLYN 



37 



Some said to hill, and some to glen, 
Their wondrous course had been; 

But ne'er in haunts of living men 

Again was Thomas seen. i6o 



THE BARD'S INCANTATION 

In the autumn of 1804, Scott was with his 
wife at Gilsland, where they had first met, 
when he received intelligence which led him 
to believe that a French force was about to 
land in Scotland. He at once rode, within 
twenty-four hours, a hundred miles to Dalkeith, 
where his troop was to rendezvous, and it was 
on this ride that he composed the following 
poem. 

The forest of Glenmore is drear, 

It is all of black pine and the dark oak- 
tree; 
And the midnight wind to the mountain 
deer 
Is whistling the forest lullaby: 
The moon looks through the drifting 

storm. 
But the troubled lake reflects not her form, 
For the waves roll whitening to the land, 
And dash against the shelvy strand. 

There is a voice among the trees 

That mingles with the groaning oak — 
That mingles with the stormy breeze. 
And the lake-waves dashing against the 
rock ; — 
There is a voice within the wood. 
The voice of the bard in fitful mood ; 
His song was louder than the blast. 
As the bard of Glenmore through the for- 
est past. 

* Wake ye from your sleep of death, 

Minstrels and bards of other days ! 
For the midnight wind is on the heath. 

And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: 
The Spectre with his Bloody Hand 
Is wandering through the wild wood- 
land ; 
The owl and the raven are mute for 

dread, 
And the time is meet to awake the dead ! 

* Souls of the mighty, wake and say 

To what high strain your harps were 
strung, 
When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way 



And on your shores her Norsemen 
flung ? 
Her Norsemen trained to spoil and blood, 
Skilled to prepare the raven's food, 
All by your harpings doomed to die 
On bloody Largs and Loncarty. 

* Mute are ye all ? No murmurs strange 

Upon the midnight breeze sail by, 
Nor through the pines with whistling 
change 
Mimic the harp's wild harmony ! 
Mute are ye now ? — Ye ne'er were mute 
When Murder with his bloody foot, 
And Rapine with his iron hand. 
Were hovering near yon mountain 
strand. 

* O, yet awake the strain to tell, 

By every deed in song enrolled, 
By every chief who fought or fell. 

For Albion's weal in battle bold: — 
From Coilgach, first who rolled his car 
Through the deep ranks of Roman war, 
To him of veteran memory dear 
Who victor died on Aboukir. 

* By all their swords, by all their scars. 

By all their names, a mighty spell ! 
By all their wounds, by all their wars. 

Arise, the mighty strain to tell ! 
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, 
More impious than the heathen Dane, 
More grasping than all-grasping Rome, 
Gaul's ravening legions hither come ! ' 

The wind is hushed and still the lake — 
Strange murmurs fill my tinkling ears, 
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake, 

At the dread voice of other years — 
* When targets clashed and bugles rung. 
And blades round warriors' heads were 

flung. 
The foremost of the band were we 
And hymned the joys of Liberty ! ' 

HELLVELLYN 

* In the spring of 1805,' says Scott, * a young 
gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable 
disposition, peiislied by h>sing' his way on the 
mountain Hollvellyn. His remains were not 
discovered till three months afterwards, when 
tliey were found g^uarded by a faithful terrier- 
bitch, his constant attendant during frequent 



38 



EARLY BALLADS AND LYRICS 



solitarjzamUes tiuongli ike wilds of Cnmber- 
lawl aBdWestnardaad.' l^e poem wan wzit- 
tea at tlie time. 

I CLDCBED the dack Ihow of the mi^itj 
HeUTeUjn, 
Lakes and moantains beneath me 
gfeamed misty and wide; 

All was still sa^e Ij fits, idirai the eagle 
was yelling. 
And starting around me the echoes re- 
lied. 

On the right, Striden-edge round the Bed- 
tarn was bending. 

And Catchedieam its left Terge was de- 



One huge nameless rock in the front was 
ascending. 
When I marked the sad spot where the 
wanderer had died. 

Dark green was that spot mid the bvown 
moontain heather. 
Where the PilgTim of Katnre lay 
stretched in decay. 
Like the corpse of an outcast ahaadoned to 

weather 

Till the mountain-winds wasted the ten- 
antlpjgR clay. 
Nor yet qui^ deserted, though k»ely ex- 
tended. 
For, ^thfol in death, his mnte faTorite 

attended. 
The mnch4oTc>d remains oi her master 
defoBded, 
And chased the hill-fox and the raTen 
away. 

How long didst thoa think that his sQence 

was slumber ? 
When the wind waved his garment, how 

oft didst thou start? 
How many Icmg days and long weeks didst 



Ere he faded before thee, the frioid of 
thy heart? 

And O, was it meet that — no requiem 
read o'^ him, 

Xo mother to weep and no friend to de- 
plore him. 

And thiou, little guardian, alone stx^LAed 
before him — 
Unhonored the I^lgrim from life^i^iould 
depart? 

When a pocinee to the fate of the peasant 
has yielded. 
The tap^tij waves dark round the dim- 
li^itedhall; 
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is 
shielded. 
And pages stand mnte by the canopied 
paU: 
Through the courts at de^ midnight the 



In the proudly arched chapel the 



Far adown the Imig aisle sacred musie is 
streaming 
Lam»iting a dief of the people diould 

But meeter far thee, gentle lorer of na- 
ture. 
To lay down thy head like the meek 
mountain lamb^ 
What wildered he drv^ from some diff 
huge in stature. 
And draws his last sob by the side of his 



And iDote statefy tiiy couch by this desert 

lake lying. 
Thy ofaseqfuies sung by the gray plover fly- 



m& 



thy 



With (me futhfnl frioid bat toi 
dying 
In the arms of HeDveHyn and Catchc 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



When Scott was collecting material for the 
third volume of The Border Minstrelsy^ he 
wrote to Miss Seward that he meant to include 
in it a ' sort of Romance of Border chivalry and 
Enchantment,' and when giving" the same infor- 
mation to Mr. George Ellis, he adds that it ' is 
in a light-horseman sort of stanza.' In his 
Introduction which follows below, Scott gives 
an account of the genesis of the poem and the 
circumstances of attending the first trial. He 
was wont to speak lightly of his verse, and it 
was with no affectation of modesty that he 
wrote to Miss Seward: *Was all the time I 
wasted upon the Lay put together, — for it 
was laid aside for long intervals, — I am sure 
it would not exceed six weeks. The last canto 
was written in three forenoons when I was 
lying in quarters with our yeomanry. I leave 
it with yourself to guess how little I can have 
it in my most distant imagination to place my- 
self upon a level with the great Bards you 
have mentioned, the very latchets of whose 
shoes neither Southey nor I are worthy to un- 
loose.' As the first considerable poem of Scott's 
own composition, it has a further interest, of- 
ten attaching to first productions, from the 
veiled autobiographic element, for Lockhart 
says that it distinctly refers to a secret attach- 
ment which Scott cherished ' from almost the 
dawn of the passion.' ' This — (however he 
may have disguised the story by mixing it up 
with the Quixotic adventure of the damsel in 
the green mantle) — this was the early and 
innocent affection to which we owe the tender- 
est pages, not only of Bedgauntlet, but of The 
Lay of the Last Minstrel, and of Bokeby, and 
which found its first poetic expression in the 
little poem ' The Violet.' In all of these works 
the heroine has certain distinctive features, 
drawn from one and the same haunting dream 
of his manly adolescence.' A more explicit 
reference will be found in the head-note to 
' The Violet,' page 7. 

In his Introduction Scott treats the poem as 
a part of his literary history. Ho wrote the 
account a quarter of a century after the publi- 
cation of the poem, and it is a pleasure to read 
and compare with it the more familiar com- 
ment on the Lay which he sends at the time of 
its publication in the freedom of correspond- 
eiiCQ to Miss Seward. 



39 



• Edinburgh, 21st March, 1805. 

* My dear Miss Seward, — I am truly 
happy that you found any amusement in The 
Lay of the Last Minstrel. It has great faults, 
of which no one can be more sensible than I 
am myself. Above all, it is deficient in that 
sort of continuity which a story ought to have, 
and which, were it to write again, I would en- 
deavour to give it. But I began and wandered 
forward, like one in a pleasant country, getting 
to the top of one hill to see a prospect, and to 
the bottom of another to enjoy a shade ; and 
what wonder if my course has been devious and 
desultory, and many of my excursions alto- 
gether unprofitable to the advance of my jour- 
ney ? The Dwarf Page is also an excrescence, 
and I plead guilty to all the censures concern- 
ing him. The truth is he has a history, and it 
is this : The story of Gilpin Horner was told 
by an old gentleman to Lady Dalkeith, and 
she, much diverted with his act, really believ- 
ing so grotesque a tale, insisted that I should 
make it into a Border ballad. I don't know 
if ever you saw my lovely chief tainess — if you 
have, you must be aware that it is impossible 
for any one to refuse her request, as she has 
more of the angel in face and temper than any 
one alive ; so that if she had asked me to write 
a ballad on a broomstick, I must have at- 
tempted it. I began a few verses to be called 
" The Goblin Page ; " and they lay long by me, 
till the applause of some friends whose judg- 
ment I valued induced me to resume the poem ; 
so on I wrote, knowing no more than the man in 
the moon how I was to end. At length the story 
appeared so uncouth, that I was fain to put 
it into the mouth of my old IMinstrel — lest 
the nature of it should be misunderstood, and I 
should be suspected of setting up a new school 
of poetry, instead of a feeble attempt to imi- 
tate the old. In the process of the romance, 
the page, intended to be a principal pei'son in 
the work, contrived (from the baseness of his 
natural propensities, I suppose) to slink down 
stairs into the kitchen, and now he must e'en 
abide there. 

' I mention these circumstances to you, and 
to finy one whose applause I value, because I 
am unwilling you should suspect mo of trilling 
with the public in malice prepense. As to the 
herd of critics, it is impossible for me to pay 



40 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



much attention to them, for, as they do not 
miderstand what I call poetry, we talk ia a 
f orei^ language to each other. Indeed, many 
of these gentlemen appear to me to be a sort of 
tinkers, who, unable to make pots and pans, set 
up for menders of them, and, God knows, often 
make two holes in patching one. The sixth 
canto is altogether redundant; for the poem 
should certainly have closed with the union of 
the lovers, when the interest, if any, was at an 
end. But what could I do ? I had my book 
and my page still on my hands, and must get 
rid of them at all events. Manage them as I 
would, their catastrophe must have been insuf- 
ficient to occupy an entire canto ; so I was fain 
to eke it out with the songs of the minstrels. I 
will now descend from the confessional, which 
I think I have occupied long enough for the 
patience of my fair confessor. I am happy 
you are disposed to give me absolution, notwith- 
standing all my sins.' . . - 

Scott refers in his Introduction to the im- 
mediate success of his venture, and Lockhart 
supplies details which substantiate his state- 
ment that ' in the history of British Poetry 
nothing had ever equalled the demand for 
The Lay of the Last Minstrel.'' The success 
unquestionably confirmed Scott in his resolu- 
tion to devote himself to the literary life, yet 
it is interesting to note how persistently he 
held to his theoretical doctrine that litera- 
ture should be a subsidiary means of support, 
or as he puts it, a staff and not a crutch. It 
was while urging again this doctrine in a letter 
to Crabbe in 1812 that he lets fall the fact, no- 
where else referred to by him, that he wrote 
* The Lay of the Last Minstrel for the purpose 
of buying a new horse for the Volunteer Cav- 

When first published early in January, 1805, 
the poem was introduced by the following 
Preface : — 



* The poem, now offered to the Public, is in- 
tended to illustrate the customs and manners 
which anciently prevailed on the Borders of 
England and Scotland. The inhabitants living 
in a state partly pastoral and partly warlike, 
and combining habits of constant depredation 
with the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry, 
were often engaged in scenes highly susceptible 
of poetical ornament. As the description of 
scenery and manners was more the object of 
the Author than a combined and regular nar- 
rative, the plan of the Ancient Metrical Ro- 
mance was adopted, which allows greater lati- 
tude, in this respect, than would be consistent 
with the dignity of a regular Poem. The same 
model offered other facilities, as it permits an 
occasional alteration of measure, which, in some 
degree, authorizes the change of rhythm in the 
text. The machinery, also, adopted from pop- 
ular belief, would have seemed puerile in a 
Poem which did not partake of the rudeness of 
the old Ballad, or Metrical Romance. 

' For these reasons, the Poem was put into 
the mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the last of 
the race, who, as he is supposed to have sur- 
vived the Revolution, might have caught some- 
what of the refinement of modern poetry, with- 
out losing the simplicity of his original model. 
The date of the Tale itself is about the middle 
of the sixteenth century, when most of the per- 
sonages actually flourished. The time occu- 
pied by the action is Three Nights and Three 
Days.' 

When Cadell took hold of the publication of 
Sir Walter's writings he projected that reissue 
in uniform style of the prose and poetry, with 
introductions by the author, which resulted in 
the extraordinary sale, by which Scott's debts 
were paid and the fortunes of the author put 
on a firm foundation. It was for this edi- 
tion of 1830 that Scott furnished the follow- 
ing— 



INTRODUCTION 



A poem of nearly thirty years' standing 
may be supposed hardly to need an Introduc- 
tion, since, without one, it has been able to 
keep itself afloat through the best part of a 
generation. Nevertheless, as, in the edition of 
the Waverley Novels now in course of publica- 
tion [1830], I have imposed on myself the task 
of saying something concerning the purpose 
and history of each, in their turn, I am desirous 
that the Poems for which I first received some 
marks of the public favor should also be ac- 
companied with such scraps of their literary 

1 In this esftay, printed in the 1830 edition of the 
Border yfinstrdsy^ Scott prives an account of his school- 
boy attempts at writing verse, of his translations of Biir- 



history as may be supposed to carry interest 
along with them. Even if I should be mis- 
taken in thinking that the secret history of 
what was once so popular may still attract 
public attention and curiosity, it seems to me 
not without its use to record the manner and 
circumstances under which the present, and 
other Poems on the same plan, attained for a 
season an extensive reputation. 

I must resume the story of my literary la- 
bors at the period at which I broke off in the 
Essay on the Imitation of Popular Poetry,^ 

per's ' Lenor6 ' and Dcr Wilde Jaeger (brought out in 
1796 under the title of William and Helen^ but *a dead 
loss ' to the publishers), of his subsequent versions of 



AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 



41 



when I had enjoyed the first gleam of public 
favor, by the success of the first edition of 
the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. The 
second edition of that work, published in 1803, 
proved, in the language of the trade, rather a 
heavy concern. The demand in Scotland had 
been supplied by the first edition, and the cu- 
riosity of the English was not much awakened 
by poems in the rude garb of antiquity, accom- 
panied with notes referring to the obscure 
feuds of barbarous clans, of whose very names 
civilized history was ignorant. It was, on the 
whole, one of those books which are more 
praised than they are read. 

At this time I stood personally in a different 
position from that which I occupied when I 
first dipt my desperate pen in ink for other 
purposes than those of my profession. In 1796, 
when I first published the translations from 
Biirger, I was an insulated individual, with 
only my own wants to provide for, and having, 
in a great measure, my own inclinations alone 
to consult. In 1803, when the second edition 
of the Minstrelsy appeared, I had arrived at a 
period of life when men, however thoughtless, 
encounter duties and circumstances which press 
consideration and plans of life upon the most 
careless minds. I had been for some time 
married, — was the father of a rising family, 
and, though fully enabled to meet the conse- 
quent demands upon me, it was my duty and 
desire to place myself in a situation which 
would enable me to make honorable provision 
against the various contingencies of life. 

It may be readily supposed that the attempts 
which I had made in literature had been un- 
favorable to my success at the bar. The god- 
dess Themis is, at Edinburgh, and I suppose 
everywhere else, of a peculiarly jealous dispo- 
sition. She will not readily consent to share 
her authority, and sternly demands from her 
votaries, not only that real duty be carefully 
attended to and discharged, but that a certain 
air of business shall be observed even in the 
midst of total idleness. It is prudent, if not 
absolutely necessary, in a young barrister, to 
appear completely engrossed by his profession ; 
however destitute of employment he may in 
reality be, he ought to preserve, if possible, the 
appearance of full occupation. He should, 
therefore, seem perpetually engaged among his 
law-papers, dusting them, as it were ; and, as 
Ovid advises the fair, 

* Si nuUus erit pulvis, tamen excute nullum.' 1 
Perhaps such extremity of attention is more 

sundry German dramas, of his first attempts at ballad 
writing (» Glenfinlas and The Eve of St. John,' included 
in 'Monk' Lewis's Talcs of Wondrr in 1801), and of 
his first literary success in the Border Minstrdsy of 
1802, W. J. R. 



especially required, considering the great num- 
ber of counsellors who are called to the bar, 
and how very small a proportion of them are 
finally disposed, or find encouragement, to fol- 
low the law as a profession. Hence the number 
of deserters is so great that the least lingering 
look behind occasions a young novice to be set 
down as one of the intending fugitives. Cer- 
tain it is, that the Scottish Themis was at this 
time peculiarly jealous of any flirtation with 
the Muses, on the part of those who had ranged 
themselves under her banners. This was prob- 
ably owing to her consciousness of the superior 
attractions of her rivals. Of late, however, she 
has relaxed in some instances in this particular, 
an eminent example of which has been shown 
in the case of my friend Mr. Jeffrey, who, after 
long conducting one of the most influential lit- 
erary periodicals of the age with unquestion- 
able ability, has been, by the general consent 
of his brethren, recently elected to be their 
Dean of Faculty, or President, — being the 
highest acknowledgment of his professional 
talents which they had it in their power to 
offer.2 But this is an incident much beyond 
the ideas of a period of thirty years' distance, 
when a barrister who really possessed any turn 
for lighter literature was at as much pains to 
conceal it as if it had in reality been something 
to be ashamed of ; and I could mention more 
than one instance in which literature and so- 
ciety have suffered much loss that jurispru- 
dence might be enriched. 

Such, however, was not my case ; for the 
reader will not wonder that my open interfer- 
ence with matters of light literature diminished 
my employment in the weightier matters of 
the law. Nor did the solicitors, upon w^hose 
choice the counsel takes rank in his profession, 
do me less than justice, by regarding others 
among my contemporaries as fitter to discharge 
the duty due to their clients, than a young 
man who was taken up with running after bal- 
lads, whether Teutonic or national. My pro- 
fession and I, therefore, came to stand nearly 
upon the footing which honest Slender consoled 
himself on having established with Mistress 
Anne Page : ' There was no great love between 
us at the beginning, and it pleased Heaven to 
decrease it on farther acquaintance.' I be- 
came sensible that the time was come when I 
must either buckle myself resolutely to the 
' toil by day, the lamp by night,' renouncing 
all the Delilalis of my imagination, or bid adieu 
to the profession of the law, and hold another 
course. 

1 ♦ If dust be none, yet brush that none away.' 
2 [Jeffrey conducted the Edinhurgfi Ixrvirw for twen- 
ty-seven years. He retired the year before Scott wrote 
the above, and was elected Doau of the Faculty of Ad- 
vocates.l 



42 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



I confess my own inclination revolted from 
the more severe choice, which might have been 
deemed by many the wiser alternative. As 
my transgressions had been nnmerons, my re- 
pentance must have been signalized by nnu- 
sual sacrifices. I ought to have mentioned that 
since my fourteenth or fifteenth year my health, 
originally delicate, had become extremely ro- 
bust. From infancy I had labored under the 
infirmity of a severe lameness ; but, as I be- 
lieve is usually the case with men of spirit 
who stifFer under personal inconveniences of 
this nature, I had. since the improvement of 
my health, in defiance of this incapacitating 
circumstance, distinguished myself by the en- 
durance of toil on foot or horseback, having 
often walked thirty miles a day, and rode 
upwards of a hundred, without resting. In 
this manner I made many pleasant journeys 
through parts of the country then not very ac- 
cessible, gaining more amusement and instruc- 
tion than I have been able to acquire since I 
have travelled in a more commodious manner. 
1 practised most sylvan sports also, with some 
success and with great delight. But these 
pleasures must have been all resigned, or used 
with gTcat moderation, had I determined to re- 
gain my station at the bar. It was even doubt- 
ful whether I could, with perfect character as 
a jurisconstdt, retain a situation in a volunteer 
corps of cavalry, which I then held. The 
threats of invasion were at this time instant 
and menacing ; the call by Britain on her 
children was universal, and was answered by 
some, who like myself, consulted rather their 
desire than their ability to bear arms. My ser- 
vices, however, were found useful in assisting 
to maintain the discipline of the corps, being 
the point on which their constitution rendered 
them most amenable to military criticism. In 
other respects the squadron was a fine one, con- 
sisting chiefly of handsome men, well mounted 
and armed at their own expense. My attention 
to the corps took up a good deal of time ; and 
while it occupied many of the happiest hours 
of my life, it furnished an additional reason for 
my reluctance ag-ain to encounter the severe 
course of study indispensable to success in the 
juridical profession. 

On the other hand, my father, whose feelings 
might have been hurt by ray quitting the bar, 
had been for two or three years dead, so that 
I had no control to thwart my own inclina- 
tion ; and my income being equal to all the 
comforts, and some of the elegancies, of life, 
I was not pressed to an irksome labor by ne- 
cessity, that most powerful of motives ; con- 
sequently, I was the more easily seduced to 
choose the employment which was most agree- 
able to me. This was yet the easier, that in 
1800 I had obtained the preferment of Sheriff 



of Selkirkshire, about £^300 a year in value, 
and which was the more agreeable to me as in 
that comity I had several friends and relations. 
But I did not abandon the profession to which 
I had been educated without certain prudential 
resolutions, which, at the risk of some ego- 
tism. I will here mention ; not without the hope 
that they may be useful to young persons who 
may stand in circumstances similar to those in 
which I then stood. 

In the first place, upon considering the lives 
and fortunes of persons who had given them- 
selves up to literature, or to the task of pleas- 
ing the public, it seemed to me that the 
circumstances which chiefly affected their hap- 
piness and character were those from which 
Horace has bestowed upon authors the epithet 
of the Irritable Race. It requires no depth of 
philosophic reflection to perceive that the petty 
warfare of Pope with the Dunces of his period 
could not have been carried on without his suf- 
feiing the most acute torture, such as a man 
must endure from mosqtiitoes. by whose stings he 
suffers agony, although he can crush them in his 
grasp by myriads. Xor is it necessary to call to 
memory the many humiliaring instances in which 
men of the greatest genius have, to avenge 
some pitiful quarrel, made themselves ridicu- 
lous during their lives, to become the still 
more degTaded objects of pity to future times. 
Upon the whole, as I had no pretension to 
the genius of the distinguished persons who 
had fallen into such errors. I concluded there 
could be no occasion for imitating them in their 
mistakes, or what I considered as such ; and. in 
adopting literary pursuits as the principal occu- 
pation of my future life. I resolved, if possible, 
to avoid those weaknesses of temper which 
seemed to have most easUy beset my more 
celebrated predecessors. 

With this view, it was my first resolution to 
keep as iai' as was in my power abreast of 
society, continuing to maintain my place in gen- 
eral company, without yielding to the very nat- 
ural temptation of narrowing myself to what 
is called literary society. By doing so, I im- 
agined I should escape the besetting sin of 
listening to language which, from one motive 
or other, is apt to ascribe a very undue degree 
of consequence to literary pursuits, as if they 
were, indeed, the business, rather than the 
amusement, of life. The opposite course can 
only be compared to the injudicious conduct of 
one who pampers himself with cordial and 
luscious draughts, until he is unable to endure 
wholesome bitters. Like Gil Bias, therefore, 
I resolved to stick by the society of my cow/his, 
instead of seeking that of a more literary cast, 
and to maintain my general interest in what 
was going on around me, reserving the man of 
letters for the desk and the library. 



AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 



43 



My second resolution was a corollary from 
the first. I determined that, without shutting- 
my ears to the voice of true criticism, I would 
pay no regard to that which assumes the form 
of satire. I therefore resolved to arm myself 
with that triple brass of Horace, of which those 
of my profession are seldom held deficient, 
ag-ainst all the roving warfare of satire, parody, 
and sarcasm ; to laugh if the jest was a good 
one ; or, if otherwise, to let it hum and buzz 
itself to sleep. 

It is to the observance of these rules (ac- 
cording to my best belief) that, after a life of 
thirty years engaged in literary labors of vari- 
ous kinds, I attribute my never having been 
entangled in any literary quarrel or contro- 
versy ; and, which is a still more pleasing re- 
sult, that I have been distinguished by the 
personal friendship of my most approved con- 
temporaries of all parties. 

I adopted, at the same time, another resolu- 
tion, on which it may doubtless be remarked 
that it was well for me that I had it in my 
power to do so, and that, therefore, it is a line 
of conduct which, depending upon accident, can 
be less generally applicable in other cases. 
Yet I fail not to record this part of my plan, 
convinced that, though it may not be in every 
one's power to adopt exactly the same resolu- 
tion, he may nevertheless, by his own exertions, 
in some shape or other, attain the object on 
which it was founded, namely, to secure the 
means of subsistence, without relying exclu- 
sively on literary talents. In this respect, I 
determined that literature should be my staff, 
but not my crutch, and that the profits of my 
literary labor, however convenient otherwise, 
should not, if I could help it, become necessary 
to my ordinary expenses. With this purpose I 
resolved, if the interest of my friends could so 
far favor me, to retire upon any of the respect- 
able offices of the law, in which persons of that 
profession are glad to take refuge, when they 
feel themselves, or are judged by others, 
incompetent to aspire to its higher honors. 
Upon such a post an author might hope to re- 
treat, without any perceptible alteration of 
circumstances, whenever the time should arrive 
that the public grew weary of his endeavors to 
please, or he himself should tire of the pen. 
At this period of my life, I possessed so many 
friends capable of assisting me in this object of 
ambition, that I could hardly overrate my own 
prospects of obtaining the preferment to which 
1 limited my wishes ; and, in fact, I obtained, 
in no long period, the reversion of a situation 
which completely met them. 

Thus far all was well, and the Author had 
been guilty, perhaps, of no great imprudence, 

*Thus it has been often remarked, that, in the open- 
ing couplets of Pope's trauslation of the Iliad, there are 



when he relinquished his forensic practice with 
the hope of making some figure in the field of 
literature. But an established character with 
the public, in my new capacity, still remained 
to be acquired. I have noticed that the trans- 
lations from Biirger had been unsuccessful, nor 
had the original poetry which apj^eared under 
the auspices of Mr. Lewis, in the Tales of Won- 
der, in any great degree raised my reputa- 
tion. It is true, I had private friends disposed 
to second me in my efforts to obtain popular- 
ity. But I was sportsman enough to know, 
that if the greyhound does not run well, the 
halloos of his patrons will not obtain the prize 
for him. 

Neither was I ignorant that the practice of 
ballad- writing was for the present out of fash- 
ion, and that any attempt to revive it, or to 
found a poetical character upon it, would cer- 
tainly fail of success. The ballad measure itself, 
which was once listened to as to an enchanting 
melody, had become hackneyed and sickening, 
from its being the accompaniment of every 
grinding hand-organ ; and besides, a long work 
in quatrains, whether those of the common 
ballad, or such as are termed elegiac, has an 
effect upon the mind like that of the bed of 
Procrustes upon the human body ; for, as it 
must be both awkward and difficult to carry 
on a long sentence from one stanza to another, 
it follows that the meaning of each period 
must be comprehended within four lines, and 
equally so that it must be extended so as 
to fill that space. The alternate dilation and 
contraction thus rendered necessary is singu- 
larly unfavorable to narrative composition; 
and the * Gondibert ' of Sir William D'Ave- 
nant, though containing many striking pas- 
sages, has never become popular, owing chiefly 
to its being told in this species of elegiac verse. 

In the dilemma occasioned by this objec- 
tion, the idea occurred to the Author of using 
the measured short line, which forms the struc- 
ture of so much minstrel poetry, that it may be 
properly termed the Romantic stanza, by way 
of distinction ; and which appears so natural 
to our language, that the very best of our poets 
have not been able to protract it into the verse 
properly called Heroic, without the use of epi- 
thets which are, to say the least, unnecessary.^ 
But, on the other hand, the extreme facility of 
the short couplet, which seems congenial to our 
language, and was, doubtless for that reason, 

two syllables forming a superfluous word in each line, 
as may be observed by attending to such words as are 
printed in Italics. 

' Achilles* wratli, to Greece tlie direful sprinp 
Of woes uuiunuborM, hravcnhi eoadosK, sixg ; 
That wrath which sent to Plutcvs' i/loonit/ reign. 
The souls of nnnhUi chiefs in battle slain, 
Whoso bones, nnbnried on the tharrt shore, 
Devouring dogs and hununj vultures tore.* 



44 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



so popular with our old minstrels, is, for the 
same reason, apt to prove a snare to the com- 
poser -who uses it in more modem days, by 
encouraging him in a habit of slovenly com- 
position. The necessity of occasional pauses 
often forces the young poet to pay more atten- 
tion to sense, as the boy's kite rises highest 
when the train is loaded by a due counterpoise. 
The Author was therefore intimidated by what 
Byron calls the ' fatal facUity ' of the octosyl- 
labic verse, which was otherwise better adapted 
to his purpose of imitating the more ancient 
poetry. 

I was not less at a loss for a subject which 
might admit of being treated with the simpli- 
city and wildness of the ancient ballad. But 
accident dictated both a theme and measure 
which decided the subject as well as the struc- 
ture of the poem. 

The lovely young Countess of Dalkeith, 
afterwards Harriet Duchess of Buccleuch, had 
come to the land of her husband with the 
desire of making herself acquainted with its 
traditions and customs, as well as its manners 
and history. All who remember this lady will 
agree that the intellectual character of her 
extreme beauty, the amenity and courtesy of 
her manners, the soundness of her understand- 
ing, and her unbounded benevolence, gave 
more the idea of an angelic visitant than of a 
being belonging to this nether world ; and such 
a thought was but too consistent with the short 
space she was permitted to tarry among us.^ 
Of course, where all made it a pride and pleas- 
ure to gratify her wishes, she soon heard 
enough of Border lore ; among others, an aged 
gentleman of property,- near Langholm, com- 
municated to her ladyship the story of Gilpin 
Homer, a tradition in which the narrator, and 
many more of that country, were firm believers. 
The young Countess, much delighted with the 
legend, and the gravity and full confidence with 
which it was told, enjoined on me as a task to 
compose a baUad on the subject. Of course, to 
hear was to obey ; and thus the goblin story 
objected to by several critics as an excrescence 
upon the poem was, in fact, the occasion of its 
being written. 

A chance similar to that which dictated the 
subject gave me also the hint of a new mode 
of treating it. We had at that time the lease 
of a pleasant cottage near Lasswade, on the 
romantic banks of the Esk, to which we es- 

» [Tlie Duchefts of Bucclench died in August, 1814,] 
« This waa Mr Beattie of Mickledalo, a man then con- 
Biderably upwards of eiglicy, of a shrewd and sarcastic 
temper, which he did not at all times suppress, as the 
following anecdote will show : A worthy clergj-man, 
now deceased, with better good-will than tact, was en- 
deavorine to pusli the senior forward m his recollection 
of Border ballads and legends, by expressing reiterated 



caped when the vacations of the Court permit, 
ted me so much leisure. Here I had the 
pleasure to receive a visit from Mr. Stoddart 
(now Sir John Stoddart, Judge-Advocate at 
Malta), who was at that time collecting the 
particulars which he afterwards embodied in 
his Remarks on Local Scenery in Scotland. I 
was of some use to him in procuring the in- 
formation which he desired, and guiding him 
to the scenes which he wished to see. In re- 
turn, he made me better acquainted than I had 
hitherto been with the poetic efPusions which 
have since made the Lakes of Westmoreland, 
and the authors by whom they have been sung, 
so famous wherever the English tongue is 
spoken. 

I was already acquainted with the ' Joan of 
Arc,' the ' Thalaba,' and the ' Metrical Ballads * 
of Mr. Southey, which had found their way to 
Scotland, and were generally admired. But 
Mr. Stoddart, who had the advantage of j^er- 
sonal friendship with the authors, and who pos- 
sessed a strong memory with an excellent taste, 
was abl6 to repeat to me many long specimens 
of their poetry, which had not yet appeared in 
print. Among'st others, was the striking frag- 
ment called ' Christabel,' by Mr. Coleridge, 
which, from the singularly irregular structure 
of the stanzas, and the liberty which it allowed 
the author to adapt the sound to the sense, 
seemed to be exactly suited to such an extrav- 
ag'anza as I meditated on the subject of Gilpin 
Horner. As applied to comic and humorous 
poetry, this mescolanza of measures had been 
already used by Anthony Hall, Anstey, Dr. 
Woicott, and others ; but it was in ' Christabel ' 
that I first found it used in serious poetry, and 
it is to Mr. Coleridge that I am bound to make 
the acknowledgment due from the pupil to his 
master. I observe that Lord Byron, in noti- 
cing my obligations to ISIr. Coleridge, which I 
have been always most ready to acknowledge, 
expressed, or was understood to express, a 
hope that I did not write an unfriendly review 
on ^Ir. Coleridge's productions. On this sub- 
ject I have only to say that I do not even know 
the review which is alluded to ; and were I 
ever to take the unbecoming freedom of censur- 
ing a man of Mr. Coleridge's extraordinary 
talents, it would be on account of the caprice 
and indolence with which he has thrown from 
him, as if in mere wantonness, those unfinished 
scraps of poetry, which, like the Torso of an- 

surprise at his wonderful memory. * No, sir,* said old 
Mickledale ; * my memory is good for little, for it can- 
not retain what ought to be preserved. I can remember 
all these stories about the auld riding days, which are 
of no earthly importance ; but were you, reverend sir, 
to repeat your best sermon in this drawing-room, I 
could not tell you half an hour afterwards what you bad 
been speaking about.* 



AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 



45 



tiquity, defy the skill of his poetical brethren 
to complete them. The charming fragments 
which the author abandons to their fate, are 
surely too valuable to be treated like the proofs 
of careless engravers, the sweepings of whose 
studios often make the fortune of some pains- 
taking collector. 
K I did not immediately proceed upon my 
? projected labor, though I was now furnished 
with a subject, and with a structure of verse 
which might have the effect of novelty to the 
public ear, and afford the Author an opportu- 
nity of varying his measure with the variations 
of a romantic theme. On the contrary, it was, 
to the best of my recollection, more than a 
year after Mr. Stoddart's visit, that, by way of 
experiment, I composed the first two or three 
stanzas of The Lay of the Last Minstrel. I 
was shortly afterwards visited by two intimate 
friends, one of whom still survives. They were 
men whose talents might have raised them to 
the highest station in literature, had they not 
preferred exerting them in their own profession 
of the law, in which they attained equal pre- 
ferment. I was in the habit of consulting them 
on my attempts at composition, having equal 
confidence in their sound taste and friendly 
sincerity .1 In this specimen I had, in the 
phrase of the Highland servant, packed all 
that was my own at least, for I had also in- 
cluded a line of invocation, a little softened, 
from Coleridge — 

' Mary, mother, shield us well.' 

As neither of my friends said much to me on 
the subject of the stanzas I showed them be- 
fore their departure, I had no doubt that their 
disgust had been greater than their good-na- 
ture chose to express. Looking upon them, 
therefore, as a failure, I threw tho manuscript 
into the fire, and thought as little more as I 
could of the matter. Some time afterwards I 
met one of my two counsellors, who inquired, 
with considerable appearance of interest, about 
the progress of the romance I had commenced, 
and was greatly surprised at learning its fate. 
He confessed that neither he nor our mutual 
friend had been at first able to give a precise 
opinion on a poem so much out of the common 
road ; but that as they walked home together 
to the city, they had talked much on the sub- 
ject, and the result was an earnest desire that I 
would proceed with the composition. He also 
added, that some sort of prologue might be 
necessary, to place the mind of the hearers in 
the situation to understand and enjoy the poem, 
and recommended the adoption of such quaint 

1 One of these, William Erskino, esq. (Lord Kinned- 
der), I have often had occasion to mention, and thou^^h 
I may hardly be thanked for disclosiug the name of the 



mottoes as Spenser has used to announce the 
contents of the chapters of the Faery Queen, 
such as — 

' Babe's bloody hands may not be cleansed. 

The face of golden Mean : 

Her sisters two. Extremities, 

Strive her to banish clean.' 

I entirely agreed with my friendly critic in 
the necessity of having some sort of pitch-pipe, 
which might make readers aware of the object, 
or rather the tone, of the publication. But I 
doubted whether, in assuming the oracular 
style of Spenser's mottoes, the interpreter 
might not be censured as the harder to be 
understood of the two. I therefore introduced 
the Old Minstrel, as an appropriate prolocutor 
by whom the lay might be sung or spoken, and 
the introduction of whom betwixt the cantos 
might remind the reader at intervals of the 
time, place, and circumstances of the recitation. 
This species of cadre, or frame, afterwards af- 
forded the poem its name of The Lay of the 
Last Minstrel. 

The work was subsequently shown to other 
friends during its progress, and received the 
imprimatur of Mr. Francis Jeffrey, who had 
been already for some time distinguished by 
his critical talent. 

The poem, being once licensed by the critics 
as fit for the market, was soon finished, proceed- 
ing at about the rate of a canto per week. 
There was, indeed, little occasion for pause or 
hesitation, when a troublesome rhyme might 
be accommodated by an alteration of the 
stanza, or where an incorrect measure might be 
remedied by a variation of the rhyme. It was 
finally published in 1805, and may be regarded 
as the first work in which the writer, who has 
been since so voluminous, laid his claim to be 
considered as an original author. 

The book was published by Longman and 
Company, and Archibald Constable and Com- 
pany. The principal of the latter firm was 
then commencing that course of bold and lib- 
eral industry which was of so much advantage 
to his country, and might have been so to him- 
self, but for causes which it is needless to enter 
into here. The work, brought out on the usual 
terms of division of profits between the author 
and publishers, was not long after purchased by 
them for £500, to which Messrs. Longman and 
Company afterwards added £100, in their own 
unsolicited kindness, in consequence of the un- 
common success of the work. It was hand- 
somely given to supply the loss of a fine horse, 
which broke down suddenly while the Author 
was riding with one of tho wortliy publishers. 

It would be great affectation not to own 

other, yet I cannot but state tliat the second ia George 
Cranstoun, esq., now a Senator of the College of Justice 
by the title of Lord Corehouse. 



46 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



frankly, that the Author expected some success 
from The Lay of the Last Minstrel. The at- 
tempt to return to a more simple and natural 
style of poetry was likely to be welcomed, at 
a time when the public had become tired of 
heroic hexameters, with all the buckram and 
binding which belong" to them of later days. 
But whatever might have been his expecta- 
tions, whether moderat or unreasonable, the 
result left them far behind, for among those 
who smiled on the adventurous Minstrel were 
numbered the gTeat names of William Pitt and 
Charles Fox. Neither was the extent of the 



sale inferior to the character of the judges who 
received the poem with approbation. Upwards 
of thirty thousand copies of the Lay were dis- 
posed of by the trade ; and the Audior had to 
perform a task difficult to human vanity, when 
called upon to make the necessary deductions 
from his own nierits, in a calm attempt to 
account for his popularity. 

A few additional remarks on the Author's 
literary attempts after this period, will be 
found in the Introduction to the Poem of 
Marmion. 

Abbotspoed, April, 1830. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



Bum relegOy scripsisse pudet ; quiaplurima cerno^ 
Me qiwque qui feci judice, digna lini. 



TO THE 

RIGHT HONORABLE 

CHARLES, EARL OF DALKEITH, 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY 
THE AUTHOR 



INTRODUCTION 

The way was long, the wind was cold, 

The Minstrel was infirm and old; 

His withered cheek and tresses gray 

Seemed to have known a better day; 

The harp, his sole remaining joy, 

Was carried by an orphan boy. 

The last of all the bards was he, 

Who sung of Border chivalry; 

For, well-a-day ! their date was fled, 

His tuneful brethren all were dead; lo 

And he, neglected and oppressed. 

Wished to be with them and at rest. 

No more on prancing palfrey borne, 

He carolled, light as lark at morn; 

No longer courted and caressed. 

High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 

He poured, to lord and lady gay, 

The unpremeditated lay: 

Old times were changed, old manners gone; 

A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne; 20 

The bigots of the iron time 

Had called his harmless art a crime. 

A wandering harper, scorned and poor, 



He begged his bread from door to door, 

And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 

The harp a king had loved to hear. 

He passed where Newark's stately tower 

Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: 

The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye — 

No humbler resting-place was nigh. 3c 

With hesitating step at last 

The embattled portal arch he passed. 

Whose ponderous grate and massy bar 

Had oft rolled back the tide of war. 

But never closed the iron door 

Against the desolate and poor. 

The Duchess marked his weary pace. 

His timid mien, and reverend face. 

And bade her page the menials tell 

That they should tend the old man well: ^r 

For she had known adversity, 

Though born in such a high degree; 

In pride of power, in beauty's bloom. 

Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb ! 

When kindness had his wants supplied, 
And the old man was gratified, 
Began to rise his minstrel pride ; 



CANTO FIRST 



47 



And he began to talk anon 

Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone, 

And of Earl Walter, rest him God ! 50 

A braver ne'er to battle rode; 

And how full many a tale he knew 

Of the old warriors of Buccleuch: 

And, would the noble Duchess deign 

To listen to an old man's strain. 

Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak, 

He thought even yet, the sooth to speak. 

That, if she loved the harp to hear, 

He could make music to her ear. 

The humble boon was soon obtained; 60 
The aged Minstrel audience gained. 
But when he reached the room of state 
Where she with all her ladies sate. 
Perchance he wished his boon denied: 
For, when to tune his harp he tried, 
His trembling hand had lost the ease 
Which marks security to please; 
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain 
Came wildering o'er his aged brain — 
He tried to tune his harp in vain. 70 

The pitying Duchess praised its chime, 
And gave him heart, and gave him time, 
Till every string's according glee 
Was blended into harmony. 
And then, he said, he would full fain 
He could recall an ancient strain 
He never thought to sing again. 
It was not framed for village churls. 
But for high dames and mighty earls ; 
He had played it to King Charles the 
Good 80 

When he kept court in Holyrood; 
And much he wished, yet feared, to try 
The long-forgotten melody. 
Amid the strings his fingers strayed, 
And an uncertain warbling made. 
And oft he shook his hoary head. 
But when he caught the measure wild, 
The old man raised his face and smiled ; 
And lightened up his faded eye 
With all a poet's ecstasy ! 90 

In varying cadence, soft or strong, 
He swept the sounding chords along: 
The present scene, the future lot. 
His toils, his wants, were all forgot; 
Cold diffidence and age's frost 
In the full tide of song were lost; 
Each blank, in faithless memory void. 
The poet's glowing thought supplied; 
And, while his harp responsive rung, 
'T was thus the Latest Minstrel sung. 100 



CANTO FIRST 



The feast was over in Branksome tower, 
And the Ladye had gone to her secret 

bower, 
Her bower that was guarded by word and 

by spell, 
Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell — 
Jesu Maria, shield us well ! 
No living wight, save the Ladye alone, 
Had dared to cross the threshold stone. 



The tables were drawn, it was idlesse 
all; 

Knight and page and household squire 
Loitered through the lofty hall, 10 

Or crowded round the ample fire: 
The stag-hounds, weary with the chase, 

Lay stretched upon the rushy floor. 
And urged in dreams the forest race. 

From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor. 

Ill 

Nine-and-twenty knights of fame 

Hung their shields in Branksome Ha^ll; 
Nine-and-twenty squires of name 

Brought them their steeds to bower from 
stall ; 
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall 20 

Waited duteous on them all: 
They were all knights of mettle true. 
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. 

IV 

Ten of them were sheathed in steel, 
With belted sword and spur on heel; 
They quitted not their harness bright, 
Neither by day nor yet by night: 

They lay down to rest, 

With corselet laced, 
Pillowed on buckler cold and hard; 30 

They carved at the meal 

With gloves of steel. 
And they drank the red wine through the 
helmet barred. 



Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, 
Waited the beck of the warders ten; 
Tliirty steeds, both fleet and wight. 
Stood saddled in stable day and night, 
l^arded with frontlet of steel, I trow. 
And with Jedwood-axe at saddle-bow; 



48 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



A hundred more fed free in stall: — 40 

Such was the custom of Branksome Hall. 

VI 

Why do these steeds stand ready dight ? 

Why watch these warriors armed by night? 

They watch to hear the bloodhound bay- 
ing ; 

They watch to hear the war-horn bray- 
ing; 

To see Saint George's red cross stream- 
ings 

To see the midnight beacon gleaming; 

They watch against Southern force and 
guile, 
Lest Scroop or Howard or Percy's pow- 
ers 
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers, 50 

From Warkworth or Naworth or merry 
Carlisle. 

VII 

Such is the custom of Branksome Hall. 

Many a valiant knight is here ; 
But he, the chieftain of them all, 
His sword hangs rusting on the wall 

Beside his broken spear. 
Bards long shall tell 
How Lord Walter fell ! 
When startled burghers fled afar 
The furies of the Border war, 60 

When the streets of high Dunedin 
Saw lances gleam and falchions redden, 
And heard the slogan's deadly yell, — 
Then the Chief of Branksome fell. 

VIII 

Can piety the discord heal, 

Or stanch the death-feud's enmity ? 
Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, 

Can love of blessed charity ? 
No ! vainly to each holy shrine. 

In mutual pilgrimage they drew, 70 

Implored in vain the grace divine 

For chiefs their own red falchions slew. 
Wliile Cessford owns the rule of Carr, 

While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, 
The slaughtered chiefs, the mortal jar, 
The havoc of the feudal war, 

Shall never, never be forgot ! 

IX 

In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier 
The warlike foresters had bent, 



And many a flower and many a tear 80 

Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent; 
But o'er her warrior's bloody bier 
The Ladye dropped nor flower nor tear ! 
Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain. 

Had locked the source of softer woe, 
And burning pride and high disdain 

Forbade the rising tear to flow; 
Until, amid his sorrowing clan. 

Her son lisped from the nurse's knee, 
* And if I live to be a man, 90 

My father's death revenged shall be ! ' 
Then fast the mother's tears did seek 
To dew the infant's kindling cheek. 



All loose her negligent attire. 

All loose her golden hair, 
Hung Margaret o'er her slaughtered sire 

And wept in wild despair. 
But not alone the bitter tear 

Had filial grief supplied, 
For hopeless love and anxious fear ic 

Had lent their mingled tide ; 
Nor in her mother's altered eye 
Dared she to look for sympathy. 
Her lover 'gainst her father's clan 

With Carr in arms had stood, 
When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran 

All purple with their blood ; 
And well she knew her mother dread, 
Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed. 
Would see her on her dying bed. 1 1 

XI 

Of noble race the Ladye came ; 
Her father was a clerk of fame 

Of Bethune's line of Picardie: 
He learned the art that none may name 

In Padua, far beyond the sea. 
Men said he changed his mortal frame 

By feat of magic mystery; 
For when in studious mood he paced 

Saint Andrew's cloistered hall. 
His form no darkening shadow traced i: 

Upon the sunny wall ! 

XII 

And of his skill, as bards avow. 

He taught that Ladye fair. 
Till to her bidding she could bow 

The viewless forms of air. 
And now she sits in secret bower 
In old Lord David's western tower, 



CANTO FIRST 



49 



And listens to a heavy sound 
That moans the mossy turrets round. 
Is it the roar of Teviot's tide, 130 

That chafes against the scaur's red side ? 
Is it the wind, that swings the oaks ? 
Is it the echo from the rocks ? 
What may it be, the heavy sound, 
That moans old Branksome's turrets 
round ? 

XIII 
At the sullen, moaning sound 

The ban-dogs bay and howl, 
And from the turrets round 

Loud whoops the startled owl. 
In the hall, both squire and knight 140 

Swore that a storm was near. 
And looked forth to view the night; 

But the night was still and clear ! 

XIV 

From the sound of Teviot's tide, 
Chafing with the mountain's side, 
From the groan of the wind-swung oak. 
From the sullen echo of the rock, 
From the voice of the coming storm. 

The Ladye knew it well ! 
It was the Spirit of the Flood that 
spoke, 150 

And he called on the Spirit of the Fell. 

XV 
RIVER SPIRIT 

« Sleep'st thou, brother ? ' 

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT 

* Brother, nay — 
On my hills the moonbeams play. 
From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen, 
By every rill, in every glen. 
Merry elves their morris pacing. 

To aerial minstrelsy, 
Emerald rings on brown heath tracing. 

Trip it deft and merrily. 
Up, and mark their nimble feet ! 160 

Up, and list their music sweet ! 

XVI 
RIVER SPIRIT 

* Tears of an imprisoned maiden 

Mix with my polluted stream ; 
Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, 

Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. 
Tell me, thou who view'st the stars, 
When shall cease these feudal jars ? 



170 



What shall be the maiden's fate ? 
Who shall be the maiden's mate ? ' 

XVII 
MOUNTAIN SPIRIT 

* Arthur's slow wain his course doth 

roll 
In utter darkness round the pole; 
The Northern Bear lowers black and grim, 
Orion's studded belt is dim; 
Twinkling faint, and distant far. 
Shimmers through mist each planet star; 

111 may I read their high decree : 
But no kind influence deign they shower 
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower 

Till pride be quelled and love be free.' 

XVIII 

The unearthly voices ceased, 180 

And the heavy sound was still; 
It died on the river's breast. 

It died on the side of the hill. 
But round Lord David's tower 

The sound still floated near; 
For it rung in the Ladye's bower, 

And it rung in the Ladye's ear. 
She raised her stately head, 

And her heart throbbed high with pride: 

* Your mountains shall bend 190 
And your streams ascend. 

Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride ! ' 

XIX 
The Ladye sought the lofty hall, 

Where many a bold retainer lay, 
And with jocund din among them all 

Her son pursued his infant play. 
A fancied moss-trooper, the boy 

The truncheon of a spear bestrode, 
And round the hall right merrily 

In mimic foray rode. 200 

Even bearded knights, in arms grown old, 

Share in his frolic gambles bore, 
Albeit their hearts of rugged mold 

Were stubborn as the steel they wore. 
For the gray warriors prophesied 

How the brave boy in future war 
Should tame the Unicorn's pride, 

Exalt the Crescents and the Star. 

XX 

The Ladye forgot licr purpose high 

One moment and no more, 21c 

One moment gazed with a mother's eye 
As she paused at the arched door; 



so 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



Then from amid the armed train 

She called to her William of Deloraine. 

XXI 

A stark moss-trooping Scott was he 
As e'er couched Border lance by knee : 
Through Sol way Sands, through Tarras 

Moss, 
Blindfold he knew the paths to cross; 
By wily turns, by desperate bounds, 
Had baffled Percy's best bloodhounds; 220 
In Eske or Liddel fords were none 
But he would ride them, one by one; 
Alike to him was time or tide, 
December's snow or July's pride; 
Alike to him was tide or time. 
Moonless midnight or matin prime: 
Steady of heart and stout of hand 
As ever drove prey from Cumberland; 
Five times outlawed had he been 229 

By England's king and Scotland's queen. 

XXII 

* Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, 
Mount thee on the wightest steed; 
Spare not to spur nor stint to ride 
Until thou come to fair Tweedside; 
And in Melrose's holy pile 

Seek thou the Monk of Saint Mary's aisle. 
Greet the father well from me; 

Say that the fated hour is come, 
And to-night he shall watch with thee, 

To win the treasure of the tomb; 240 

For this will be Saint Michael's night. 
And though stars be dim the moon is bright. 
And the cross of bloody red 
Will point to the grave of the mighty 
dead. 

XXIII 

* What be gives thee, see thou keep ; 
Stay not thou for food or sleep: 

Be it scroll or be it book, 

Into it, knight, thou must not look; 

I f thou readest, thou art lorn ! 

Better hadst thou ne'er been born ! ' 250 

XXIV 

* O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, 

Which drinks of the Teviot clear; 
Ere break of day,' the warrior gan say, 

* Again will I be here: 
And safer by none may thy errand be done 

Than, noble dame, by me; 



Letter nor line know I never one, 
Were 't my neck-verse at Hairibee.* 

XXV 

Soon in his saddle sate he fast. 

And soon the steep descent he passed, 260 

Soon crossed the sounding barbican, 

And soon the Teviot side he won. 

Eastward the wooded path he rode, 

Green hazels o'er his basnet nod; 

He passed the Peel of Goldiland, 

And crossed old Borthwick's roaring 

strand; 
Dimly he viewed the Moat-hill's mound, 
Where Druid shades still flitted round: 
In Hawick twinkled many a light; 
Behind him soon they set in night; 270 

And soon he spurred his courser keen 
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. 

XXVI 
The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark: 

* Stand, ho ! thou courier of the dark.* 

* For Branksome, ho ! ' the knight rejoined, 
And left the friendly tower behind. 

He turned him now from Teviotside, 
And, guided by the tinkling rill, 

Northward the dark ascent did ride. 

And gained the moor at Horseliehill ; 280 

Broad on the left before him lay 

For many a mile the Koman way. 

XXVII 

A moment now he slacked his speed, 
A moment breathed his panting steed, 
Drew saddle-girth and corselet-band, 
And loosened in the sheath his brand. 
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint. 
Where Barnhill hewed his bed of flint. 
Who flung his outlawed limbs to rest 
Where falcons hang their giddy nest 290 
Mid cliffs from whence his eagle eye 
For many a league his prey could spy; 
Cliffs doubling, on their echoes borne. 
The terrors of the robber's horn; 
Cliffs which for many a later year 
The warbling Doric reed shall hear, 
When some sad swain shall teach the grove 
Ambition is no cure for love. 



Unchallenged, thence passed Deloraine 
To ancient Riddel's fair domain. 
Where Aill, from mountains freed, 



CANTO SECOND 



SI 



Down from the lakes did raving come ; 
Each wave was crested with tawny foam, 

Like the mane of a chestnut steed. 
In vain ! no torrent, deep or broad, 
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. 

XXIX 

At the first plunge the horse sunk low, 
And the water broke o'er the saddle-bow : 
Above the foaming tide, I ween, 309 

Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; 
For he was barded from counter to tail. 
And the rider was armed complete in mail ; 
Never heavier man and horse 
Stemmed a midnight torrent's force. 
The warrior's very plume, I say, 
Was daggled by the dashing spray; 
Yet, through good heart and Our Ladye's 

grace, 
At length he gained the landing-place. 

XXX 

Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, 

And sternly shook his plumed head, 320 
As glanced his eye o'er Halidon; 

For on his soul the slaughter red 
Of that unhallowed morn arose. 
When first the Scott and Carr were foes; 
When royal James beheld the fray, 
Prize to the victor of the day; 
When Home and Douglas in the van 
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan. 
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear 
Reeked on dark Elliot's Border spear. 330 

XXXI 
In bitter mood he spurred fast. 
And soon the hated heath was past; 
And far beneath, in lustre wan. 
Old Melros' rose and fair Tweed ran: 
Like some tall rock with lichens gray, 
Seemed, dimly huge, the dark Abbaye. 
When Hawick he passed had curfew rung, 
Now midnight lauds were in Melrose sung. 
The sound upon the fitful gale 
In solemn wise did rise and fail, 340 

Like that wild harp whose magic tone 
Is wakened by the winds alone. 
But when Melrose he reached 't was silence 

all; 
He meetly stabled his steed in stall. 
And sought the convent's lonely wall. 



Here paused the harp; and with its swell 

The Master's fire and courage fell: 

Dejectedly and low he bowed, 

And, gazing timid on the crowd, 

He seemed to seek in every eye 350 

If they approved his minstrelsy ; 

And, diffident of present praise. 

Somewhat he spoke of former days. 

And how old age and wandering long 

Had done his hand and harp some wrong. 

The Duchess, and her daughters fair, 

And every gentle lady there, 

Each after each, in due degree. 

Gave praises to his melody; 

His hand was true, his voice was clear, 360 

And much they longed the rest to hear. 

Encouraged thus, the aged man 

After meet rest again began. 



CANTO SECOND 



If thou would st view fair Melrose aright, 

Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 

For the gay beams of lightsome day 

Gild but to flout the ruins gray. 

When the broken arches are black in 

night. 
And each shafted oriel glimmers white; 
When the cold light's uncertain shower 
Streams on the ruined central tower; 
When buttress and buttress, alternately, 
Seem framed of ebon and ivory; 10 

When silver edges the imagery. 
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and 

die; 
When distant Tweed is heard to rave. 
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's 

grave. 
Then go — but go alone the while — 
Then view Saint David's ruined pile; 
And, home returning, soothly swear 
Was never scene so sad and fair ! 

II 

Short halt did Deloraine make there; 
Little recked he of the scene so fair: 20 

With dagger's hilt on the wicket strong 
He struck full loud, and struck full long. 
The porter hurried to the gate : 

* Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?' 

* From Branksonie I,' the warrior cried; 
And straight the wicket opened wide: 



52 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



For Branksome's chiefs had in battle stood 
To fence the rights of fair Melrose; 

And lands and livings, many a rood, 

Had gifted the shrine for their souls' re- 
pose. 30 

III 

Bold Deloraine his errand said ; 

The porter bent his humble head; 

With torch in hand, and feet unshod. 

And noiseless step, the path he trod: 

The arched cloister, far and wide. 

Rang to the warrior's clanking stride, 

Till, stooping low his lofty crest. 

He entered the cell of the ancient priest, 

And lifted his barred aventayle 

To hail the Monk of Saint Mary's aisle. 40 

IV 

* The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by 
me, 

Says that the fated hour is come. 
And that to-night I shall watch with thee, 

To win the treasure of the tomb.' 
From sackcloth couch the monk arose. 

With toil his stiffened limbs he reared; 
A hundred years had flung their snows 

On his thin locks and floating beard. 



And strangely on the knight looked he. 
And his blue eyes gleamed wild and 
wide : 50 

* And darest thou, warrior, seek to see 

What heaven and hell alike would hide ? 
My breast in belt of iron pent. 

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn. 
For threescore years, in penance spent. 

My knees those flinty stones have worn; 
Yet all too little to atone 
For knowing what should ne'er be known. 
Wouldst thou thy every future year 

In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, 60 
Yet wait thy latter end with fear — 

Then, daring warrior, follow me ! ' 

VI 

* Penance, father, will I none; 
Prayer know I hardly one ; 

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, 
Save to patter an Ave Mary, 
When I ride on a Border foray. 
Other prayer can I none; 
So speed me my errand, and let me be 
gone.' 



VII 

Again on the knight looked the churchman 
old, 70 

And again he sighed heavily; I 

For he had himself been a warrior bold, 
And fought in Spain and Italy. 

And he thought on the days that were long 
since by, 

When his limbs were strong and his cour- 
age was high: 

NoWj slow and faint, he led the way 

Where, cloistered round, the garden lay; 

The pillared arches were over their head. 

And beneath their feet were the bones of 
the dead. 



VIII 



80 



Spreading herbs and flowerets bright 
Glistened with the dew of night; 
Nor herb nor floweret glistened there 
But was carved in the cloister - arches as 

fair. 
The monk gazed long on the lovely moon, 

Then into the night he looked forth; 
And red and bright the streamers light 

Were dancing in the glowing north. 
So had he seen, in fair Castile, 

The youth in glittering squadrons starts 
Sudden the flying jennet wheel, 90 

And hurl the unexpected dart. 
He knew^ by the streamers that shot so 

bright. 
That spirits were riding the northern light. 

IX 

By a steel-clenched postern door 

They entered now the chancel tall; 
The darkened roof rose high aloof 

On pillars lofty and light and small : 
The keystone that locked each ribbed 

aisle 
Was a fleur-de-lys or a quatre-feuille; 
The corbels were carved grotesque and 

grim ; 100 

And the pillars, with clustered shafts so 

trim. 
With base and with capital flourished 

around. 
Seemed bundles of lances which garlands 

had bound. 



Full many a scutcheon and banner riven 
Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, 
Around the screened altar's pale; 



CANTO SECOND 



53 



And there the dying lamps did burn 
Before thy low and lonely urn, 
O gallant Chief of Otterburne ! 

And thine, dark Knight of Liddes- 
dale ! no 

O fading honors of the dead ! 
O high ambition lowly laid I 

XI 

The moon on the east oriel shone 
Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 

By foliaged tracery combined; 
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's 

hand 
'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand 

In many a freakish knot had twined, 
Then framed a spell when the work was 

done. 
And changed the willow wreaths to 
stone. I20 

The silver light, so pale and faint, 
Showed many a prophet and many a saint, 

Whose image on the glass was dyed; 
Full in the midst, his cross of red 
Triumphant Michael brandished. 

And trampled the Apostate's pride. 
The moonbeam kissed the holy pane. 
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. 

XII 
They sate them down on a marble stone — 
A Scottish monarch slept below; 130 

Thus spoke the monk in solemn tone: 

* I was not always a man of woe ; 
For Paynim countries I have trod. 
And fought beneath the Cross of God: 
Now, strange to my eyes thine arms ap- 
pear. 
And their iron clang sounds strange to my 
ear. 

XIII 
* In these far climes it was my lot 
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott; 

A wizard of such dreaded fame 
That when, in Salamanca's cave, 140 

Him listed his magic wand to wave. 

The bells would ring in Notre Dame ! 
Some of his skill he taught to me; 
And, warrior, I could say to thee 
The words that cleft Eildon Hills in three, 

And bridled the Tweed with a curb oi 
stone: 

But to speak them were a deadly sin, 



And for having but thought them my heart 
within 
A treble penance must be done. 



150 



XIV 

* When Michael lay on his dying bed. 
His conscience was awakened; 
He bethought him of his sinful deed. 
And he gave me a sign to come with speed: 
I was in Spain when the morning rose. 
But I stood by his bed ere evening close. 
The words may not again be said 

That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; 
They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave, 
And pile it in heaps above his grave. 

XV 

* I swore to bury his Mighty Book, 160 
That never mortal might therein look; 
And never to tell where it was hid. 

Save at his Chief of Branksome's need; 
And when that need was past and o'er. 
Again the volume to restore. 
I buried him on Saint Michael's night. 
When the bell tolled one and the moon 

was bright, 
And I dug his chamber among the dead. 
When the floor of the chancel was stained 

red. 
That his patron's cross might over him 

wave, 170 

And scare the fiends from the wizard's 



grave. 



XVI 



* It was a night of woe and dread 
When Michael in the tomb I laid; 
Strange sounds along the chancel passed, 
The banners waved without a blast ' — 
Still spoke the monk, when the bell tolled 

one ! — 
I tell you, that a braver man 
Than William of Deloraine, good at need. 
Against a foe ne'er spurred a steed ; 
Yet somewhat was he chilled with 

dread, iSo 

And his hair did bristle upon his head. 

XVII 

* Lo, warrior ! now, the cross of red 
Points to the grave of the mighty dead: 
Within it burns a wondrous light. 

To chase the spirits that love the night; 
That lamp shall burn unquenchably, 
Until the eternal doom shall be.' 



54 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



Slow moved the monk to the broad flag- 
stone 

Which the bloody cross was traced upon: 

He pointed to a secret nook; 190 

An iron bar the warrior took; 

And the monk made a sign with his with- 
ered hand, 

The grave's huge portal to expand. 

XVIII 
With beating heart to the task he went, 
His sinewy frame o'er the gravestone 

bent. 
With bar of iron heaved amain 
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows like 

rain. 
It was by dint of passing strength 
That he moved the massy stone at length. 
I would you had been there to see 200 

How the light broke forth so gloriously, 
Streamed upward to the chancel roof. 
And through the galleries far aloof ! 
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright; 
It shone like heaven's own blessed light, 

And, issuing from the tomb, 
Showed the monk's cowl and visage pale. 
Danced on the dark-browed warrior's mail, 

And kissed his waving plume. 

XIX 

Before their eyes the wizard lay, 210 

As if he had not been dead a day. 

His hoary beard in silver rolled. 

He seemed some seventy winters old; 

A palmer's amice wrapped him round. 

With a wrought Spanish baldric bound. 

Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea: 
His left hand held his Book of Might, 
A silver cross was in his right ; 

The lamp was placed beside his knee. 
High and majestic was his look, 220 

At which the fellest fiends had shook. 
And all unruffled was his face : 
They trusted his soul had gotten grace. 

XX 

Often had William of Deloraine 
Rode through the battle's bloody plain. 
And trampled down the warriors slain. 
And neither known remorse nor awe. 
Yet now remorse and awe he owned ; 
His breath came thick, his head swam 
round. 
When this fitrange scene of death he 
saw. 230 



Bewildered and unnerved he stood, 

And the priest prayed fervently and loud : 

With eyes averted prayed he; 

He might not endure the sight to see 

Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 

XXI 

And when the priest his death-prayer had 

prayed, 
Thus unto Deloraine he said: 

* Now, speed thee what thou hast to do, 
Or, warrior, we may dearly rue ; 

For those thou mayst not look upon 240 
Are gathering fast round the yawning 

stone ! ' 
Then Deloraine in terror took 
From the cold hand the Mighty Book, 
With iron clasped and with iron bound: 
He thought, as he took it, the dead man 

frowned; 
But the glare of the sepulchral light 
Perchance had dazzled the warrior's sight. 

XXII 

When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb. 

The night returned in double gloom, 

For the moon had gone down and the stars 

were few; 250 

And as the knight and priest withdrew. 
With wavering steps and dizzy brain, 
They hardly might the postern gain. 
'T is said, as through the aisles they 

passed, 
They heard strange noises on the blast; 
And through the cloister-galleries small. 
Which at mid-height thread the chancel 

wall. 
Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, 
And voices unlike the voice of man, 
As if the fiends kept holiday 260 

Because these spells were brought to-day. 
I cannot tell how the truth may be; 
I say the tale as 't was said to me. 

XXIII 

* Now, hie thee hence,' the father said, 

* And when we are on death-bed laid, 

O may our dear Ladye and sweet Saint 

John 
Forgive our souls for the deed we have 

done ! ' 
The monk returned him to his cell. 

And many a prayer and penance sped; 
When the convent met at the noontide 

bell, 270 



CANTO SECOND 



55 



The Monk of Saint Mary's aisle was 

dead ! 
Before the cross was the body laid, 
With hands clasped fast, as if still he 

prayed. 

XXIV 

The knight breathed free in the morning 
wind, 

And strove his hardihood to find : 

He was glad when he passed the tomb- 
stones gray 

Which girdle round the fair Abbaye; 

For the mystic book, to his bosom pressed. 

Felt like a load upon his breast. 

And his joints, with nerves of iron 
twined, 280 

Shook like the aspen-leaves in wind. 

Full fain was he when the dawn of day 

Began to brighten Cheviot gray; 

He joyed to see the cheerful light, 

And he said Ave Mary as well as he might. 

XXV 
The sun had brightened Cheviot gray. 
The sun had brightened the Carter's 
side; 
And soon beneath the rising day 

Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot's 
tide. 
The wild birds told their warbling tale, 290 

And wakened every flower that blows; 
And peeped forth the violet pale. 

And spread her breast the mountain 
rose. 
And lovelier than the rose so red, 
Yet paler than the violet pale, 
She early left her sleepless bed, 
The fairest maid of Teviotdale. 

XXVI 

Why does fair Margaret so early awake. 

And don her kirtle so hastilie; 
And the silken knots, which in hurry she 
would make, 300 

Why tremble her slender fingers to 
tie? 
Why does slie stop and look often around. 

As she glides down the secret stair; 
And why does she pat the shaggy blood- 
hound. 
As he rouses him up from his lair; 
And, though she passes the postern alone, 
Why is not the watchman's bugle blown ? 



XXVII 

The ladye steps in doubt and dread 
Lest her watchful mother hear her tread ; 
The ladye caresses the rough bloodhound 
Lest his voice should waken the castle 

round; 311 

The watchman's bugle is not blown, 
Foi he was her foster father's son; 
And she glides through the greenwood at 

dawn of light 
To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight. 

XXVIII 

The knight and ladye fair are met, 

And under the hawthorn's boughs are 

set. 
A fairer pair were never seen 
To meet beneath the hawthorn green. 
He was stately and young and tall, 320 

Dreaded in battle and loved in hall; 
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce 

hid. 
Lent to her cheek a livelier red. 
When the half sigh her swelling breast 
Against the silken ribbon pressed. 
When her blue eyes their secret told, 
Though shaded by her locks of gold — 
Where would you find the peerless fair 
With Margaret of Branksome might com- 
pare ! 

XXIX 

And now, fair dames, methinks I see 330 

You listen to my minstrelsy; 

Your waving locks ye backward throw, 

And sidelong bend your necks of snow. 

Ye ween to hear a melting tale 

Of two true lovers in a dale; 

And how the knight, with tender fire, 

To paint his faithful passion strove, 
Swore he might at her feet expire, 

But never, never cease to love; 
And how she blushed, and how she 
sighed, 340 

And, half consenting, half denied. 
And said that she would die a maid; — 
Yet, might the bloody feud be stayed, 
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he, 
Margaret of Branksome's choice should be 

XXX 

Alas ! fair dames, your hopes are vain I 
My harp has lost the enchanting strain; 

Its liglitness would my age reprove: 
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old, 



S6 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



My heart is dead, my veins are cold: 
I may not, must not, siug of love. 



350 



XXXI 

Beneath an oak, mossed o'er by eld, 
The Baron's dwarf his courser held. 

And held his crested helm and spear: 
That dwarf was scarce an earthly man, 
If the tales were true that of him ran 

Through all the Border far and near. 
'T was said, when the Baron a-hunting 

rode 
Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely trod. 
He heard a voice cry, * Lost ! lost ! 
lost ! ' 360 

And, like tennis-ball by racket tossed, 

A leap of thirty feet and three 
Made from the gorse this elfin shape. 
Distorted like some dwarfish ape. 

And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's knee. 
Lord Cranstoun was some whit dismayed; 
'T is said that five good miles he rade, 

To rid him of his company; 
But where he rode one mile, the dwarf ran 
four, 369 

And the dwarf was first at the castle door. 

XXXII 

Use lessens marvel, it is said: 
This elfish dwarf with the Baron staid; 
Little he ate, and less he spoke. 
Nor mingled with the menial flock; 
And oft apart his arms he tossed, 
And often muttered, * Lost ! lost ! lost ! ' 
He was waspish, arch, and litherlie. 
But well Lord Cranstoun served he : 
And he of his service was full fain; 
For once he had been ta'en or slain, 380 

An it had not been for his ministry. 
All between Home and Hermitage 
Talked of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page. 

XXXIII 

For the Baron went on pilgrimage. 
And took with him this elfish page, 

To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes; 
For there, beside Our Ladye's lake. 
An offering he had sworn to make. 

And he would pay his vows. 
But the Ladye of Branksome gathered a 
band 390 

Of the best that would ride at her com- 
mand ; 

The trystiug-place was Newark Lee. 



Wat of Harden came thither amain. 
And thither came John of Thirlestane, 
And thither came William of Deloraine; 
They were three hundred spears and 

three. 
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream, 
Their horses prance, their lances gleam. 
They came to Saint Mary's lake ere day. 
But the chapel was void and the Baron 

away. 400 

They burned the chapel for very rage. 
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page. 

XXXIV 

And now, in Branksome 's good green- 
wood. 
As under the aged oak he stood. 
The Baron's courser pricks his ears, 
As if a distant noise he hears. 
The dwarf waves his long lean arm on 

high. 
And signs to the lovers to part and fly; 
No time was then to vow or sigh. 
Fair Margaret through the hazel-grove 410 
Flew like the startled cushat-dove: 
The dwarf the stirrup held and rein; 
Vaulted the knight on his steed amain. 
And, pondering deep that morning's scene, 
Rode eastward through the hawthorns 
green. 



While thus he poured the lengthened 

tale. 
The Minstrel's voice began to fail. 
Full slyly smiled the observant page, 
And gave the withered hand of age 
A goblet, crowned with mighty wine, 420 
The blood of Velez' scorched vine. 
He raised the silver cup on high. 
And, while the big drop filled his eye, 
Prayed God to bless the Duchess long. 
And all who cheered a son of song. 
The attending maidens smiled to see 
How long, how deep, how zealously. 
The precious juice the Minstrel quaffed; 
And he, emboldened by the draught. 
Looked gayly back to them and laughed. 
The cordial nectar of the bowl 431 

Swelled his old veins and cheered his 

soul; 
A lighter, livelier prelude ran. 
Ere thus his tale again began. 



CANTO THIRD 



57 



I 



CANTO THIRD 



And said I that my limbs were old, 
And said I that my blood was cold, 
And that my kindly fire was fled, 
And my poor withered heart was dead, 

And that I might not sing of love ? — 
How could I to the dearest theme 
That ever warmed a minstrel's dream. 

So foul, so false a recreant prove ? 
How could I name love's very name, 
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame ? lo 

II 
In peace. Love tunes the shepherd's 

reed; 
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; 
In halls, in gay attire is seen; 
In hamlets, dances on the green. 
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 
And men below, and saints above; 
For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 

Ill 
So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween. 
While, pondering deep the tender scene, 
He rode through Branksome's hawthorn 
green. 20 

But the page shouted wild and shrill, 

And scarce his helmet could he don. 
When downward from the shady hill 

A stately knight came pricking on. 
That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray, 
Was dark with sweat and splashed with 
clay. 

His armor red with many a stain: 
He seemed in such a weary plight, 
As if he had ridden the livelong night; 

For it was William of Deloraine. 30 

IV 

But no whit weary did he seem. 

When, dancing in the sunny beam. 

He marked the crane on the Baron's crest; 

For his ready spear was in his rest. 

Few were the words, and stern and high, 

That marked the foemen's feudal hate; 
For question fierce and proud reply 

Gave signal soon of dire debate. 
Their very coursers seemed to know 
That each was other's mortal foe, 40 

And snorted fire when wheeled around 
To give each knight his vantage-ground. 



In rapid round the Baron bent; 

He sighed a sigh and breathed a prayer; 
The prayer was to his patron saint, 

The sigh was to his ladye fair. 
Stout Deloraine nor sighed nor prayed, 
Nor saint nor ladye called to aid; 
But he stooped his head, and couched his 

spear. 
And spurred his steed to full career. 50 
The meeting of these champions proud 
Seemed like the bursting thunder-cloud. 

VI 

Stern was the dint the Borderer lent ! 
The stately Baron backwards bent. 
Bent backwards to his horse's tail. 
And his plumes went scattering on the 

gale; 
The tough ash spear, so stout and true. 
Into a thousand flinders flew. 
But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail. 
Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's 

mail; 60 

Through shield and jack and acton passed, 
Deep in his bosom broke at last. 
Still sate the warrior saddle-fast. 
Till, stumbling in the mortal shock, 
Down went the steed, the girthing broke, 
Hurled on a heap lay man and horse. 
The Baron onward passed his course. 
Nor knew — so giddy rolled his brain — 
His foe lay stretched upon the plain. 

VII 

But when he reined his courser round, 70 
And saw his foeman on the ground 

Lie senseless as the bloody clay, 
He bade his page to stanch the wound. 

And there beside the warrior stay. 
And tend him in his doubtful state, 
And lead him to Branksome castle-gate: 
His noble mind was inly moved 
For the kinsman of the maid lie loved. 
*This shalt thou do without delay: 
No longer here myself may stay; So 

Unless the swifter I speed away, 
Short shrift will be at my dying day. 

VIII 

Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode; 
The Goblin Page behind abode; 
His lord's command he ne'er withstood, 
Thougli small his pleasure to do good. 



58 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



As the corselet off he took, 
The dwarf espied the Mighty Book ! 
Much he marvelled a knight of pride 
Like a book-bosomed priest should ride : 90 
He thought not to search or stanch the 

wound 
Until the secret he had found. 

IX 

The iron band, the iron clasp. 

Resisted long the elfin grasp; 

For when the first he had undone, 

It closed as he the next begun. 

Those iron clasps, that iron band. 

Would not yield to unchristened hand 

Till he smeared the cover o'er 

With the Borderer's curdled gore; 100 

A moment then the volume spread, 

And one short spell therein he read. 

It had much of glamour might. 

Could make a ladye seem a knight, 

The cobwebs on a dungeon wall 

Seem tapestry in lordly hall, 

A nutshell seem a gilded barge, 

A sheeling seem a palace large, 

And youth seem age, and age seem 

youth — 
All was delusion, nought was truth. no 



He had not read another spell. 

When on his cheek a buffet fell, 

So fierce, it stretched him on the plain 

Beside the wounded Deloraine. 

From the ground he rose dismayed, 

And shook his huge and matted head; 

One word he muttered and no more, 

* Man of age, thou smitest sore ! ' 

No more the elfin page durst try 

Into the wondrous book to pry; 120 

The clasps, though smeared with Christian 

gore. 
Shut faster than they were before. 
He hid it underneath his cloak. — 
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke, 
I cannot tell, so mot I thrive; 
It was not given by man alive. 

XI 

Unwillingly himself he addressed 

To do his master's high behest: 

He lifted up the living corse. 

And laid it on the weary horse; 130 

He led him into Branksome Hall 

Before the beards of the warders all, 



And each did after swear and say 
There only passed a wain of hay. 
He took him to Lord David's tower, 
Even to the Ladye's secret bower; 
And, but that stronger spells were spread. 
And the door might not be opened. 
He had laid him on her very bed. 
Whate'er he did of gramarye 140 

Was always done maliciously; 
He flung the warrior on the ground. 
And the blood welled freshly from the 
wound. 

XII 
As he repassed the outer court. 
He spied the fair young child at sport: 
He thought to train him to the wood; 
For, at a word, be it understood. 
He was always for ill, and never for good. 
Seemed to the boy some comrade gay 
Led him forth to the woods to play; 150 
On the drawbridge the warders stout 
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out. 

XIII 
He led the boy o'er bank and fell, 

Until they came to a woodland brook; 
The running stream dissolved the spell. 

And his own elfish shape he took. 
Could he have had his pleasure vilde, 
He had crippled the joints of the noble 

child, 
Or, with his fingers long and lean, 
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen: 160 
But his awful mother he had in dread, 
And also his power was limited; 
So he but scowled on the startled child, 
And darted through the forest wild; 
The woodland brook he bounding crossed. 
And laughed, and shouted, * Lost ! lost ! 
lost ! ' 

XIV 

Full sore amazed at the wondrous change. 

And frightened, as a child might be. 
At the wild yell and visage strange, 

And the dark words of gramarye, 170 
The child, amidst the forest bower, 
Stood rooted like a lily flower; 
And when at length, with trembling pace, 

He sought to find where Branksome lay, 
He feared to see that grisly face 

Glare from some thicket on his way, 
Tims, starting oft, he journeyed on, 
And deeper in the wood is gone, — 



CANTO THIRD 



59 



For aye the more he sought his way, 
The farther still he went astray, — 
Until he heard the mountains round 
Ring to the baying of a hound. 



i8o 



XV 

And hark ! and hark ! the deep-mouthed 
bark 

Comes nigher still and nigher; 
Bursts on the path a dark bloodhound, 
His tawny muzzle tracked the ground, 

And his red eye shot fire. 
Soon as the wildered child saw he, 
He flew at him right furiouslie. 
I ween you would have seen with joy 190 
The bearing of the gallant boy, 
When, worthy of his noble sire. 
His wet cheek glowed 'twixt fear and ire ! 
He faced the bloodhound manfully, 
And held his little bat on high; 
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid. 
At cautious distance hoarsely bayed, 

But still in act to spring; 
When dashed an archer through the glade. 
And when he saw the hound was stayed, 200 

He drew his tough bowstring; 
But a rough voice cried, * Shoot not, hoy ! 
Ho ! shoot not, Edward, — 't is a boy ! ' 

XVI 

The speaker issued from the wood, 
And checked his fellow's surly mood, 

And quelled the ban-dog's ire: 
He was an English yeoman good 

And born in Lancashire. 
Well could he hit a fallow-deer 

Five hundred feet him fro ; 2 10 

With hand more true and eye more clear 

No archer bended bow. 
His coal-black hair, shorn round and close, 

Set off his sun-burned face ; 
Old England's sign. Saint George's cross, 

His barret-cap did grace; 
His bugle-horn hung by his side. 

All in a wolf-skin baldric tied ; 
And his short falchion, sharp and clear, 
Had pierced the throat of many a deer. 22c 

XVII 

His kirtle, made of forest green, 

Reached scantly to his knee; 
And, at his belt, of arrows keen 

A furbislied sheaf bore he; 
His buckler scarce in breadth a span, 

No longer fence had ho; 



He never counted him a man. 

Would strike below the knee: 
His slackened bow was in his hand, 
And the leash that was his bloodhound's 
band. 



230 



XVIII 



He would not do the fair child harm. 
But held him with his powerful arm. 
That he might neither fight nor flee; 
For when the red cross spied he. 
The boy strove long and violently. 

* Now, by Saint George,' the archer cries, 

* Edward, methinks we have a prize ! 
This boy's fair face and courage free 
Show he is come of high degree.' 

XIX 

* Yes ! I am come of high degree, 240 

For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch; 
And, if thou dost not set me free, 

False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue ! 
For Walter of Harden shall come with 

speed. 
And William of Deloraine, good at need, 
And every Scott from Esk to Tweed; 
And, if thou dost not let me go. 
Despite thy arrows and thy bow, 
I '11 have thee hanged to feed the crow ! ' 

XX 

* Gramercy for thy good-will, fair boy ! 250 
My mind was never set so high; 

But if thou art chief of such a clan. 
And art the son of such a man, 
And ever comest to thy command, 

Our wardens had need to keep good 
order: 
My bow of yew to a hazel wand. 

Thou 'It make them work upon the 
Border ! 
Meantime, be pleased to come with me, 
For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see; 
I think our work is well begun, 26c 

When we have taken thy father's son.' 

XXI 

Although the child was led away. 
In Branksonie still he seemed to stay, 
For so the Dwarf his part did play; 
And, in the shape of that young boy. 
He wrought the castle much annoy. 
The comrades of the young Buceleuch 
Ho pinched and beat and overthrew; 
Nay, some of them he well-nigh slew. 



6o 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire, 270 
And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire, 
He lighted the match of his bandelier, 
And wofuUy scorched the hackbuteer. 
It may be hardly thought or said, 
The mischief that the urchin made. 
Till many of the castle guessed 
That the young baron was possessed ! 

XXII 

Well I ween the charm he held 

The noble Ladye had soon dispelled, 

But she was deeply busied then 280 

To tend the wounded Deloraine. 

Much she wondered to find him lie 

On the stone threshold stretched along: 
She thought some spirit of the sky 

Had done the bold moss-trooper wrong, 
Because, despite her precept dread, 
Perchance he in the book had read; 
But the broken lance in his bosom stood. 
And it was earthly steel and wood. 

XXIII 
She drew the splinter from the wound, 290 

And with a charm she stanched the 
blood. 
She bade the gash be cleansed and bound: 

No longer by his couch she stood; 
But she has ta'en the broken lance, 

And washed it from the clotted gore, 

And salved the splinter o'er and o'er. 
William of Deloraine, in trance. 
Whene'er she turned it round and round, 
Twisted as if she galled his wound. 

Then to her maidens she did say, 300 

That he should be whole man and sound 

Within the course of a night and day. 
Full long she toiled, for she did rue 
Mishap to friend so stout and true. 

XXIV 

80 passed the day — the evening fell, 
*T was near the time of curfew bell; 
The air was mild, the wind was calm. 
The stream was smooth, the dew was balm; 
E'en the rude watchman on the tower 
Enjoyed and blessed the lovely hour. 310 
Far more fair Margaret loved and blessed 
The hour of silence and of rest. 
On the high turret sitting lone. 
She waked at times the lute's soft tone. 
Touched a wild note, and all between 
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green. 



Her golden hair stream.ed free from band, 
Her fair cheek rested on her hand. 
Her blue eyes sought the west afar, 
For lovers love the western star. 



320 



XXV 



Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, 

That rises slowly to her ken, 

And, spreading broad its wavering light, 

Shakes its loose tresses on the night ? 

Is yon red glare the western star ? — 

O, 't is the beacon-blaze of war ! 

Scarce could she draw her tightened 

breath. 
For well she knew the fire of death ! 

XXVI 

The warder viewed it blazing strong, 
And blew his war-note loud and long, 330 
Till, at the high and haughty sound. 
Bock, wood, and river rung around. 
The blast alarmed the festal hall. 
And startled forth the warriors all ; 
Far downward in the castle-yard 
Full many a torch and cresset glared; 
And helms and plumes, confusedly tossed, 
Were in the blaze half seen, half lost; 
And spears in wild disorder shook, 
Like reeds beside a frozen brook. 340 

XXVII 

The seneschal, whose silver hair 
Was reddened by the torches' glare. 
Stood in the midst, with gesture proud, 
And issued forth his mandates loud: 
* On Penchryst glows a bale of fire. 
And three are kindling on Priesthaughs- 
wire; 

Ride out, ride out, 

The foe to scout ! 
Mount, mount for Branksome, every man ! 
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan, 350 

That ever are true and stout. 
Ye need not send to Liddesdale, 
For when they see the blazing bale 
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail. — 
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life. 
And warn the warden of the strife ! — 
Young Gilbert, let our beacon blaze, 
Our kin and clan and friends to raise ! ' 



XXVIII 



Fair Margaret from the turret head 
Heard far below the coursers' tread, 



360 



CANTO FOURTH 



6i 



While loud the harness rung, 
As to their seats with clamor dread 

The ready horsemen sprung: 
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats, 
And leaders' voices, mingled notes, 
And out ! and out ! 
In hasty rout. 

The horsemen galloped forth; 
Dispersing to the south to scout, 

And east, and west, and north, 370 

To view their coming enemies, 
And warn their vassals and allies. 

XXIX 

The ready page with hurried hand 
Awaked the need-lire's slumbering brand, 

And ruddy blushed the heaven; 
For a sheet of flame from the turret high 
Waved like a blood-flag on the sky. 

All flaring and uneven. 
And soon a score of fires, I ween, 379 

From height and hill and cliff were seen. 
Each with warlike tidings fraught; 
Each from each the signal caught; 
Each after each they glanced to sight, 
As stars arise upon the night. 
They gleamed on many a dusky tarn, 
Haunted by the lonely earn ; 
On many a cairn's gray pyramid. 
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid; 
Till high Dunedin the blazes saw 
From Soltra and Dumpender Law, 390 

And Lothian heard the Regent's order 
That all should bowne them for the Border. 

XXX 

The livelong night in Branksome rang 

The ceaseless sound of steel; 
The castle-bell with backward clang 

Sent forth the larum peal. 
Was frequent heard the heavy jar. 
Where massy stone and iron bar 
Were piled on echoing keep and tower, 
To whelm the foe with deadly shower; 400 
Was frequent heard tlie changing guard, 
And watchword from the sleepless ward; 
While, wearied by the endless din. 
Bloodhound and ban-dog yelled within. 

XXXI 

The noble dame, amid the broil, 
Shared the gray seneschal's higli toil, 
And spoke of danger with a smile, 
Cheered the young knights, and council 
sage 



Held with the chiefs of riper age. 
No tidings of the foe were brought, 410 
Nor of his numbers knew they aught. 
Nor what in time of truce he sought. 

Some said that there were thousands 
ten; 
And others weened that it was nought 

But Leven Clans or Tynedale men. 
Who came to gather in black-mail; 
And Liddesdale, with small avail. 

Might drive them lightly back agen. 
So passed the anxious night away. 
And welcome was the peep of day. 420 



Ceased the high sound — the listening 

throng 
Applaud the Master of the Song; 
And marvel much, in helpless age. 
So hard should be his pilgrimage. 
Had he no friend — no daughter dear. 
His wandering toil to share and cheer ? 
No son to be his father's stay, 
And guide him on the rugged way ? 
* Ay, once he had — but he was dead ! ' — 
Upon the harp he stooped his head, 430 

And busied himself the strings withal. 
To hide the tear that fain would fall. 
In solemn measure, soft and slow, 
Arose a father's notes of woe. 



CANTO FOURTH 



Sweet Teviot ! on thy silver tide 

The glaring bale-fires blaze no more; 
No longer steel-clad warriors ride 

Along thy wild and willowed shore; 
Where'er thou wind'st by dale or hill, 
All, all is peaceful, all is still, 

As if thy waves, since time was born, 
Since first they rolled upon the Tweed, 
Had only heard the shepherd's reed. 

Nor startled at the bugle-horn. 



Unlike the tide of human time. 

Which, though it change in ceaseless 
flow, 
Retains each grief, retains each crime. 

Its earliest course was doomed to know, 
And, darker as it downward bears, 



62 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



Is stained with past and present tears. 

Low as that tide has ebbed with me, 
It still reflects to memory's eye 
The hour my brave, my only boy 

Fell by the side of great Dundee. 20 

Why, when the volleying musket played 
Against the bloody Highland blade, 
Why was not I beside him laid ? — 
Enough — he died the death of fame ; 
Enough — he died with conquering Graeme. 

Ill 

Now over Border dale and fell 

Full wide and far was terror spread; 
For pathless marsh and mountain cell 

The peasant left his lowly shed. 
The frightened flocks and herds were pent 30 
Beneath the peel's rude battlement; 
And maids and matrons dropped the tear, 
While ready warriors seized the spear. 
From Branksome's towers the watchman's 

eye 
Dun wreaths of distant smoke can spy, 
Which, curling in the rising sun, 
Showed Southern ravage was begun. 

IV 

Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried: 
' Prepare ye all for blows and blood ! 
Watt Tinlinn, from the Liddel-side, 40 

Comes wading through the flood. 
Full oft the Tynedale suatchers knock 
At his lone gate and prove the lock; 
It was but last Saint Barnabright 
They sieged him a whole summer night, 
But fled at morning; well they knew, 
In vain he never twanged the yew. 
Right sharp has been the evening shower 
That drove him from his Liddel tower; 
And, by my faith,' the gate-ward said, 50 
^ I think 't will prove a Warden-raid.' 



While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman 
Entered the echoing barbican. 
He led a small and shaggy nag. 
That through a bog, from hag to hag, 
Could bound like any Billhope stag. 
It bore his wife and children twain; 
A half-clothed serf was all their train: 
His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-browed, 
Of silver brooch and bracelet proud, 60 

Laughed to her friends among the crowd. 
He was of stature passing tall, 
But sparely formed and lean withal: 



A battered morion on his brow; 
A leathern jack, as fence enow, 
On his broad shoulders loosely hung; 
A Border axe behind was slung; 

His spear, six Scottish ells in length, 
Seemed newly dyed with gore ; 

His shafts and bow, of wondrous 
strength, 70 

His hardy partner bore. 

VI 

Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show 

The tidings of the English foe: 

* Belted Will Howard is marching here. 

And hot Lord Dacre, with many a spear. 

And all the German hackbut-men 

Who have long lain at Askerten. 

They crossed the Liddel at curfew hour. 

And burned my little lonely tower — 

The fiend receive their souls therefor ! 80 

It had not been burnt this year and more. 

Barnyard and dwelling, blazing bright, 

Served to guide me on my flight. 

But I was chased the livelong night. 

Black John of Akeshaw and Fergus 

Graeme 
Fast upon my traces came. 
Until I turned at Priesthaugh Scrogg, 
And shot their horses in the bog. 
Slew Fergus with my lance outright — 
I had him long at high despite; 90 

He drove my cows last Fastern's night.' 

VII 

Now weary scouts from Liddesdale, 
Fast hurrying in, confirmed the tale; 
As far as they could judge by ken, 

Three hours would bring to Teviot's 
strand 
Three thousand armed Englishmen. 

Meanwhile, full many a warlike band, 
From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade. 
Came in, their chief's defence to aid. 
There was saddling and mounting in 
haste, 100 

There was pricking o'er moor and lea; 
He that was last at the trysting-place 

Was but lightly held of his gay ladye. 

VIII 

From fair Saint Mary's silver wave. 

From dreary Gamescleuch's dusky 
height. 

His ready lances Thirlestane brave 
Arrayed beneath a banner bright. 



CANTO FOURTH 



63 



The tressured fleur-de-luoe he claims 
To wreathe his shield, since royal James, 
Encamped by Fala's mossy wave, no 

The proud distinction grateful gave 

For faith mid feudal jars; 
What time, save Thirlestane alone. 
Of Scotland's stubborn barons none 

Would march to southern wars; 
And hence, in fair remembrance worn. 
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne ; 
Hence his high motto shines revealed, 
* Ready, aye ready,' for the field. 

IX 

An aged knight, to danger steeled, 120 

With many a moss-trooper, came on; 
And, azure in a golden field. 
The stars and crescent graced his shield. 

Without the bend of Murdieston. 
Wide lay his lands round Oakwood Tower, 
And wide round haunted Castle-Ower; 
High over Borthwick's mountain flood 
His wood-embosomed mansion stood; 
In the dark glen, so deep below. 
The herds of plundered England low, 130 
His bold retainers' daily food. 
And bought with danger, blows, and blood. 
Marauding chief ! his sole delight 
The moonlight raid, the morning fight; 
Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charms 
In youth might tame his rage for arms; 
And still in age he spurned at rest, 
And still his brows the helmet pressed. 
Albeit the blanched locks below 
Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow. 140 
Five stately warriors drew the sword 

Before their father's band; 
A braver knight than Harden's lord 

Ne'er belted on a brand. 



Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band. 

Came trooping down the Todshawhill; 
By the sword they won their land. 

And by the sword they hold it still. 
Hearken, Ladye, to the tale 
How thy sires won fair Eskdale. 150 

Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair, 
The Beattisons were his vassals there. 
The earl was gentle and mild of mood, 
The vassals were warlike and fierce and 

rude ; 
High of heart and haughty of word, 
Little they recked of a tame liege-lord. 
The earl into fair Eskdale came. 



Homage and seigniory to claim; 
Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriot he sought, 
Saying, * Give thy best steed, as a vassal 
ought.' 160 

* Dear to me is my bonny white steed. 
Oft has he helped me at pinch of need; 
Lord and earl though thou be, I trow, 
I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou.' 
Word on word gave fuel to fire, 

Till so high blazed the Beattison's ire. 
But that the earl the flight had ta'en, 
The vassals there their lord had slain. 
Sore he plied both whip and spur. 
As he urged his steed through Eskdale 
muir ; 170 

And it fell down a weary weight. 
Just on the threshold of Branksome gate. 

XI 

The earl was a wrathful man to see, 
Full fain avenged would he be. 
In haste to Branksome's lord he spoke. 
Saying, * Take these traitors to thy yoke; 
For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold. 
All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and 

hold: 
Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan 
If thou leavest on Eske a landed man ! 180 
But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone. 
For he lent me his horse to escape upon.* 
A glad man then was Branksome bold, 
Down he flung him the purse of gold; 
To Eskdale soon he spurred amain, 
And with him five hundred riders has 

ta'en. 
He left his merrymen in the midst of the 

hill. 
And bade them hold them close and still; 
And alone he wended to the plain. 
To meet with the Galliard and all his 

train. 
To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said : 

* Know thou me for thy liege-lord and 

head; 
Deal not with me as with Morton tame, 
For Scotts play best at the roughest game. 
Give me in peace my heriot due. 
Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue. 
If my liorn I three times wind, 
Eskdale sliall long have the sound in 

mind.' 

XII 

Loudly the Beattison laughed in scorn; 

* Little care we for thy winded born. 200 



190 



64 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot 

To yield his steed to a haughty Scott. 

Wend thou to Branksome back on foot, 

With rusty spur and miry boot.' 

He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse 

That the dun deer started at far Craik- 

cross ; 
He blew again so loud and clear, 
Through the gray mountain-mist there did 

lances appear; 
And the third blast rang with such a 

din 
That the echoes answered from Pentoun- 

linn, 2IO 

And all his riders came lightly in. 
Then had you seen a gallant shock, 
When saddles were emptied and lances 

broke ! 
For each scornful word the Galliard had 

said 
A Beattison on the field was laid. 
His own good sword the chieftain drew. 
And he bore the Gailliard through and 

through; 
Where the Beattisons' blood mixed with 

the rill, 
The Galliard's Haugh men call it still. 
The Scotts have scattered the Beattison 

clan, 220 

In Eskdale they left but one landed man. 
The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the 

source. 
Was lost and won for that bonny white 

horse. 

XIII 

Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw 

came. 
And warriors more than I may name; 
From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-swair, 

From Woodhouselie to Chester-glen, 
Trooped man and horse, and bow and 
spear; 

Their gathering word was Bellenden. 
And better hearts o'er Border sod 230 

To siege or rescue never rode. 
The Ladye marked the aids come in. 

And high her heart of pride arose ; 
She bade her youthful son attend, 
That he might know his Father's friend, 

And learn to face his foes: 
•The boy is ripe to look on war; 

I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff, 
And his true arrow struck afar 

The raven's nest upon the cliff; 240 



The red cross on a Southern breast 

Is broader than the raven's nest: 

Thou, Whitslade, shall teach him his 

weapon to wield. 
And o'er him hold his father's shield.' 

XIV 

Well may you think the wily page 

Cared not to face the Ladye sage. 

He counterfeited childish fear. 

And shrieked, and shed full many a tear, 

And moaned, and plained in manner wild. 

The attendants to the Ladye told, 250 
Some fairy, sure, had changed the child, 

That wont to be so free and bold. 
Then wrathful was the noble dame; 
She blushed blood-red for very shame: 
* Hence ! ere the clan his faintness view; 
Hence with the weakling to Buccleugh ! — 
Watt Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide 
To Rangleburn's lonely side. — 
Sure, some fell fiend has cursed our line, 
That coward should e'er be son of 
mine ! ' 260 

XV 
A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had, 
To guide the counterfeited lad. 
Soon as the palfrey felt the weight 
Of that ill-omened elfish freight. 
He bolted, sprung, and reared amain, 
Nor heeded bit nor curb nor rein. 
It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil 
To drive him but a Scottish mile; 

But as a shallow brook they crossed. 
The elf, amid the running stream, 270 

His figure changed, like form in dream, 

And fled, and shouted, * Lost ! lost ! 
lost ! ' 
Full fast the urchin ran and laughed, 
But faster still a cloth-yard shaft 
Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew. 
And pierced his shoulder through and 

through. 
Although the imp might not be slain. 
And though the wound soon healed again. 
Yet, as he ran, he yelled for pain; 
And Watt of Tinlinn, much aghast, 280 

Rode back to Branksome fiery fast. 

XVI 

Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood. 
That looks o'er Branksome's towers and 
wood; 



CANTO FOURTH 



6S 



And martial murmurs from below 
Proclaimed the approaching Southern foe. 
Through the dark wood, in mingled tone, 
Were border pipes and bugles blown ; 
The coursers' neighing he could ken, 
A measured tread of marching men; 
While broke at times the solemn hum, 290 
The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum; 
And banners tall, of crimson sheen, 

Above the copse appear; 
And, glistening through the hawthorns 
green, 

Shine helm and shield and spear. 

XVII 

Light forayers first, to view the ground, 
Spurred their fleet coursers loosely round; 
Behind, in close array, and fast. 

The Kendal archers, all in green, 
Obedient to the bugle blast, 300 

Advancing from the wood were seen. 
To back and guard the archer band, 
Lord Dacre's billmen were at hand: 
A hardy race, on Irthing bred. 
With kirtles white and crosses red, 
Arrayed beneath the banner tall 
That streamed o'er Acre's conquered wall; 
And minstrels, as they marched in order. 
Played, * Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on 
the Border.' 

XVIII 

Behind the English bill and bow 310 

The mercenaries, firm and slow, 

Moved on to fight in dark array, 
By Conrad led of Wolfenstein, 
Who brought the band from distant Rhine, 

And sold their blood for foreign pay. 
The camp their home, their law the sword. 
They knew no country, owned no lord : 
They were not armed like England's sons. 
But bore the levin-darting guns; 
Buff coats, all frounced and broidered 
o'er, 320 

And morsing-horns and scarfs they wore; 
Each better knee was bared, to aid 
The warriors in the escalade; 
All as they marched, in rugged tongue 
Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung. 

XIX 

But louder still the clamor grew, 
And louder still the minstrels blew. 
When, from beneath the greenwood tree, 
^de forth Lord Howard's chivalry; 



His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear, 330 
Brought up the battle's glittering rear. 
There many a youthful knight, full keen , 
To gain his spurs, in arms was seen. 
With favor in his crest, or glove. 
Memorial of his ladye-love. 
So rode they forth in fair array, 
Till full their lengthened lines display; 
Then called a halt, and made a stand. 
And cried, * Saint George for merry Eng- 
land ! ' 

XX 

Now every English eye intent 340 

On Branksome's armed towers was bent; 
So near they were that they might know 
The straining harsh of each cross-bow ; 
On battlement and bartizan 
Gleamed axe and spear and partisan; 
Falcon and culver on each tower 
Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower; 
And flashing armor frequent broke 
From eddying whirls of sable smoke. 
Where upon tower and turret head 350 

The seething pitch and molten lead 
Reeked like a witch's caldron red. 
While yet they gaze, the bridges fall, 
The wicket opes, and from the wall 
Rides forth the hoary seneschal. 

XXI 

Armed he rode, all save the head. 
His white beard o'er his breastplate spread ; 
Unbroke by age, erect his seat. 
He ruled his eager courser's gait. 
Forced him with chastened fire to 
prance, 360 

And, high curvetting, slow advance: 
In sign of truce, his better hand 
Displayed a peeled willow wand ; 
His squire, attending in the rear. 
Bore high a gauntlet on his spear. 
When they espied him riding out. 
Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout 
Sped to the front of their array. 
To hear what this old knight should say. 



XXII 
* Ye English warden lords, of you 
Demands the ladye of Buccleuch, 
Why, 'gainst the truce of i^order tide, 
In hostile guise ye dare to ride, 
With Kendal bow and Gilsland brand, 
And all yon merconary band. 
Upon the bounds of fair Scotland ? 



370 



66 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



My Ladye reads you swith return; 
And, if but one poor straw you burn, 
Or do our towers so much molest 
As scare one swallow from her nest, 380 
Saint Mary ! but we '11 light a brand 
Shall warm your hearths in Cumber- 
land.' — 

XXIII 

A wrathful man was Dacre's lord. 
But calmer Howard took the word: 

* May 't please thy dame, Sir Seneschal, 
To seek the castle's outward wall. 
Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show 
Both why we came and when we go.' 
The message sped, the noble dame 

To the wall's outward circle came; 390 

Each chief around leaned on his spear, 

To see the pursuivant appear. 

All in Lord Howard's livery dressed. 

The lion argent decked his breast; 

He led a boy of blooming hue — 

O sight to meet a mother's view ! 

It was the heir of great Buccleuch. 

Obeisance meet the herald made. 

And thus his master's will he said: 

XXIV 

* It irks, high dame, my noble lords, 400 
'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords; 
But yet they may not tamely see, 

All through the Western Wardenry, 
Your law-contemning kinsmen ride. 
And burn and spoil the Border-side; 
And ill beseems your rank and birth 
To make your towers a flemens-firth. 
We claim from thee William of Delo- 

raine, 
That he may suffer march-treason pain. 
It was but last Saint Cuthbert's even 410 
He pricked to Stapleton on Leven, 
Harried the lands of Richard Musgrave, 
And slew his brother by dint of glaive. 
Then, since a lone and widowed dame 
These restless riders may not tame. 
Either receive within thy towers 
Two hundred of my master's powers. 
Or straight they sound their warrison. 
And storm and spoil thy garrison; 
And this fair boy, to London led, 420 

Shall good King Edward's page be bred.' 

XXV 

He ceased — and loud the boy did cry. 
And stretched his little arms on high, 



Implored for aid each well-known face. 
And strove to seek the dame's embrace. 
A moment changed that Ladye's cheer. 
Gushed to her eye the unbidden tear ; 
She gazed upon the leaders round. 
And dark and sad each warrior frowned; 
Then deep within her sobbing breast 430 
She locked the struggling sigh to rest. 
Unaltered and collected stood, 
And thus replied in dauntless mood: 

XXVI 

* Say to your lords of high emprise 
Who war on women and on boys, 
That either W^illiam of Deloraine 

Will cleanse him by oath of march-treason 

stain. 
Or else he will the combat take 
'Gainst Musgrave for his honor's sake. 
No knight in Cumberland so good 440 

But William may count with him kin and 

blood. 
Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword. 
When English blood swelled Ancram ford; 
And but Lord Dacre's steed was wight. 
And bare him ably in the flight. 
Himself had seen him dubbed a knight. 
For the young heir of Branksome's line, 
God be his aid, and God be mine ! 
Through me no friend shall meet his doom ; 
Here, while I live, no foe finds room. 450 
Then, if thy lords their purpose urge. 

Take our defiance loud and high; 
Our slogan is their lyke-wake dirge, 

Our moat the grave where they shall lie.' 

XXVII 

Proud she looked round, applause to 

claim — 
Then lightened Thirlestane's eye of flame; 

His bugle Wat of Harden blew; 
Pensils and pennons wide were flung. 
To heaven the Border slogan rung, 459 

* Saint Mary for the young Buccleuch ! ' 
The English war-cry answered wide, 

And forward bent each Southern spear; 
Each Kendal archer made a stride. 

And drew the bowstring to his ear; 
Each minstrel's war-note loud was blown ; — 
But, ere a gray-goose shaft had flown, 

A horseman galloped from the rear. 

XXVIII 

* Ah ! noble lords ! ' he breathless said, 

* What treason has your march betrayed ? 



CANTO FOURTH 



67 



What make you here from aid so far, 470 

Before you walls, around you war ? 

Your foe men triumph in the thought 

That in the toils the lion 's caught. 

Already on dark Rubers] aw 

The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw ; 

The lances, waving in his train, 

Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain; 

And on the Liddel's northern strand, 

To bar retreat to Cumberland, 479 

Lord Maxwell ranks his merrymen good 

Beneath the eagle and the rood; 

And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale, 

Have to proud Angus come; 
And all the Merse and Lauderdale 

Have risen with haughty Home. 
An exile from Northumberland, 

In Liddesdale I 've wandered long. 
But still my heart was with merry Eng- 
land, 

And cannot brook my country's wrong; 
And hard I Ve spurred all night, to show 490 
The mustering of the coming foe.' 

XXIX 

* And let them come ! ' fierce Dacre cried; 

* For soon yon crest, my father's pride. 
That swept the shores of Judah's sea, 
And waved in gales of Galilee, 

From Branksome's highest towers dis- 
played. 
Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid ! — 
Level each harquebuss on row; 
Draw, merry archers, draw the bow; 
Up, billmen, to the walls, and cry, 500 

Dacre for England, win or die ! ' — 

XXX 

* Yet hear,' quoth Howard, * calmly hear. 
Nor deem my words the words of fear: 
For who, in field or foray slack. 

Saw the Blanche Lion e'er fall back ? 

But thus to risk our Border flower 

In strife against a kingdom's power, 

Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands three, 

Certes, were desperate policy. 

Nay, take the terms the Ladye made 510 

Kre conscious of the advancing aid: 

Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine 

Iri single fight, and if he gain. 

He gains for us ; but if he 's crossed, 

'T is but a single warrior lost: 

The rest, retreating as they came, 

Avoid defeat and death and shame.' 



XXXI 

111 could the haughty Dacre brook 

His brother warden's sage rebuke; 

And yet his forward step he stayed, 520 

And slow and sullenly obeyed. 

But ne'er again the Border side 

Did these two lords in friendship ride; 

And this slight discontent, men say, 

Cost blood upon another day. 

XXXII 

The pursuivant-at-arms again 

Before the castle took his stand; 
His trumpet called with parleying strain 

The leaders of the Scottish band ; 
And he defied, in Musgrave's right, 530 

Stout Deloraine to single fight. 
A gauntlet at their feet he laid. 
And thus the terms of fight he said: 
* If in the lists good Musgrave's sword 

Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine, 
Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's lord, 

Shall hostage for his clan remain; 
If Deloraine foil good Musgrave, 
The boy his liberty shall have. 

Howe'er it falls, the English band, 540 
Unharming Scots, by Scots unharmed, 
In peaceful march, like men unarmed. 

Shall straight retreat to Cumberland.' 

XXXIII 

Unconscious of the near relief, 

The proffer pleased each Scottish chief. 

Though much the Ladye sage gain- 
said; 
For though their hearts were brave and 

true, 
From Jedwood's recent sack they knew 

How tardy was the Regent's aid: 
And you may guess the noble dame 550 

Durst not the secret prescience own. 
Sprung from the art she might not name, 

By which the coming help was known. 
Closed was the compact, and agreed 
That lists should be enclosed with speed 

Beneath the castle on a lawn: 
They fixed the morrow for the strife. 
On foot, with Scottish axe and knife. 

At the fourth hour from peep of dawn; 
When Deloraine, from sickness freed, 560 
Or else a champion in his stead, 
Should for himself and chieftain stand 
Against stout Musgrave, baud to hand. 



68 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



XXXIV 

I know right well that in their lay 
Full many minstrels sing and say 

Such combat should be made on horse, 
On foaming steed, in full career. 
With brand to aid, whenas the spear 

Should shiver in the course: 
But he, the jovial harper, taught 570 

Me, yet a youth, how it was fought, 

In guise which now I say ; 
He knew each ordinance and clause 
Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws, 

In the old Douglas' day. 
He brooked not, he, that scoffing tongue 
Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong, 

Or call his song untrue: 
For this, when they the goblet plied, 
And such rude taunt had chafed his 
pride, 580 

The bard of ReuU he slew. 
On Teviot's side in fight they stood. 
And tuneful hands were stained with 

blood. 
Where still the thorn's white branches 

wave. 
Memorial o'er his rival's grave. 

XXXV 

Why should I tell the rigid doom 
That dragged my master to his tomb; 

How Ousenam's maidens tore their 
hair. 
Wept till their eyes were dead and dim. 
And wrung their hands for love of him 590 

Who died at Jedwood Air ? 
He died ! — his scholars, one by one, 
To the cold silent grave are gone; 
And I, alas ! survive alone. 
To muse o'er rivalries of yore. 
And grieve that I shall hear no more 
The strains, with envy heard before; 
For, with my minstrel brethren fled, 
My jealousy of song is dead. 



He paused: the listening dames again 600 
Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain. 
With many a word of kindly cheer, — 
In pity half, and half sincere, — 
Marvelled the Duchess how so well 
His legendary song could tell 
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot; 
Of feuds, whose memory was not; 



Of forests, now laid waste and bare; 
Of towers, which harbor now the hare ; 
Of manners, long since changed and 
gone; 610 

Of chiefs, who under their gray stone 
So long had slept that fickle Fame 
Had blotted from her rolls their name. 
And twined round some new minion's head 
The fading wreath for which they bled: 
In sooth, 't was strange this old man's verse 
Could call them from their marble hearse. 

The harper smiled, well pleased; for ne'er 
Was flattery lost on poet's ear. 
A simple race ! they waste their toil 620 
For the vain tribute of a smile; 
E'en when in age their flame expires. 
Her dulcet breath can fan its fires: 
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise, 
And strives to trim the short-lived blaze. 

Smiled then, well pleased, the aged man, 
And thus his tale continued ran. 



CANTO FIFTH 



Call it not vain : — they do not err, 
Who say that when the poet dies 

Mute Nature mourns her worshipper 
And celebrates his obsequies; 

Who say tall cliff and cavern lone 

For the departed bard make moan; 

That mountains weep in crystal rill; 

That flowers in tears of balm distil; 

Through his loved groves that breezes 
sigh, 

And oaks in deeper groan reply, 10 

And rivers teach their rushing wave 

To murmur dirges round his grave. 



Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn 
Those things inanimate can mourn, 
But that the stream, the wood, the gale. 
Is vocal with the plaintive wail 
Of those who, else forgotten long. 
Lived in the poet's faithful song, 
And, with the poet's parting breath, 
Whose memory feels a second death. 2 
The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot. 
That love, true love, should be forgot. 
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear 
Upon the gentle minstrel's bier: 



CANTO FIFTH 



69 



The phantom knight, his glory fled, 
Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead, 
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain 
And shrieks along the battle-plain ; 
The chief, whose antique crownlet long 
Still sparkled in the feudal song, 30 

Now, from the mountain's misty throne, 
Sees, in the thanedom once his own, 
His ashes undistinguished lie. 
His place, his power, his memory die; 
His groans the lonely caverns fill, 
His tears of rage impel the rill ; 
All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung. 
Their name unknown, their praise un- 
sung. 

Ill 
Scarcely the hot assault was stayed, 
The terms of truce were scarcely made, 40 
When they could spy, from Branksome's 

towers. 
The advancing march of martial powers. 
Thick clouds of dust afar appeared, 
And trampling steeds were faintly heard; 
Bright spears above the columns dun 
Glanced momentary to the sun; 
And feudal banners fair displayed 
The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. 

IV 

Vails not to tell each hardy clan, 

From the fair Middle Marches came; 50 
The Bloody Heart blazed in the van. 

Announcing Douglas, dreaded name ! 
Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, 
Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne 

Their men in battle-order set. 
And Swinton laid the lance in rest 
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest 

Of Clarence's Plantagenet. 
Nor list I say what hundreds more, 
From the rich Merse and Lammermore, 60 
And Tweed's fair borders, to the war, 
Beneath the crest of old Dunbar 

And Hepburn's mingled banners, come 
Down the steep mountain glittering far. 

And shouting still, * A Home I a Home ! ' 



Now squire and knight, from Branksome 

sent. 
On many a courteous message went: 
To every chief and lord thoy paid 
Meet thanks for prom])! iviul powerful aid, 
And told them how a truce was made, 70 



And how a day of fight was ta'en 
'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine; 

And how the Ladye prayed them dear 
That all would stay the fight to see, 
And deign, in love and courtesy, 

To taste of Branksome cheer. 
Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot, 
Were England's noble lords forgot. 
Himself, the hoary seneschal. 
Rode forth, in seemly terms to call 8c 

Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall. 
Accepted Howard, than whom knight 
Was never dubbed, more bold in fight, 
Nor, when from war and armor free, 
More famed for stately courtesy; 
But angry Dacre rather chose 
In his pavilion to repose. 

VI 

Now, noble dame, perchance you ask 

How these two hostile armies met. 
Deeming it were no easy task 90 

To keep the truce which here was set; 
Where martial spirits, all on fire. 
Breathed only blood and mortal ire. 
By mutual inroads, mutual blows, 
By habit, and by nation, foes. 

They met on Teviot's strand; 
They met and sate them mingled down, 
Without a threat, without a frown. 

As brothers meet in foreign laud: 
The hands, the spear that lately grasped, loo 
Still in the mailed gauntlet clasped. 

Were interchanged in greeting dear; 
Visors were raised and faces shown. 
And many a friend, to friend made known, 

Partook of social cheer. 
Some drove the jolly bowl about; 

With dice and draughts some chased the 
day; 
And some, with many a merry shout, 
In riot, revelry, and rout, 

Pursued the football play. nu 

VII 
Yet, be it known, had bugles blown 

Or sign of war been seen. 
Those bands, so fair together ranged, 
Those hands, so frankly interchanged, 

Had dyed with gore the green: 
The merry shout by Tcviot-sido 
Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide, 

And in the groan of death; 
And whingers, now in friendship bare, 



70 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



The social meal to part and share, 120 

Had found a bloody sheath. 
'Twixt truce and war, such sudden change 
Was not infrequent, nor held strange, 

In the old Border-day; 
But yet on Branksome's towers and town, 
In peaceful merriment, sunk down 

The sun's declining ray. 

VIII 

The blithesome signs of wassail gay 
Decayed not with the dying day; 
Soon through the latticed windows tall 130 
Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall, 
Divided square by shafts of stone, 
Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone; 
Nor less the gilded rafters rang 
With merry harp and beakers' clang; 
And frequent, on the darkening plain, 

Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran. 
As bands, their stragglers to regain. 

Give the shrill watchword of their clan; 
And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim 140 
Douglas' or Dacre's conquering name. 

IX 
Less frequent heard, and fainter still, 

At length the various clamors died, 
And you might hear from Branksome hill 

No sound but Teviot's rushing tide; 
Save when the changing sentinel 
The challenge of his watch could tell; 
And save where, through the dark profound. 
The clanging axe and hammer's sound 

Rung from the nether lawn; 150 

For many a busy hand toiled there, 
Strong pales to shape and beams to square. 
The lists' dread barriers to prepare 

Against the morrow's dawn. 



Margaret from hall did soon retreat, 

Despite the dame's reproving eye; 
Nor marked she, as she left her seat. 

Full many a stifled sigh: 
For many a noble warrior strove 
To win the Flower of Teviot's love, i5o 

And many a bold ally. 
With throbbing head and anxious heart. 
All in her lonely bower apart. 

In broken sleep she lay. 
By times, from silken couch she rose; 
While yet the bannered hosts repose, 

She viewed the dawning day: 



Of all the hundreds sunk to rest, 
First woke the loveliest and the best. 

XI 

She gazed upon the inner court, 17a 

Which in the tower's tall shadow lay. 
Where coursers' clang and stamp and snort 

Had rung the livelong yesterday: 
Now still as death; till stalking slow, — 

The jingling spurs announced his 
tread, — 
A stately warrior passed below; 

But when he raised his plumed head — 
Blessed Mary ! can it be ? — 
Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers. 
He walks through Branksome 's hostile 
towers, 180 

With fearless step and free. 
She dared not sign, she dared not speak — 
O, if one page's slumbers break. 

His blood the price must pay I 
Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears, 
Not Margaret's yet more precious tears. 

Shall buy his life a day. 

XII 

Yet was his hazard small; for well 
You may bethink you of the spell 

Of that sly urchin page: 190 

This to his lord he did impart. 
And made him seem, by glamour art, 

A knight from Hermitage. 
Unchallenged, thus, the warder's post, 
The court, unchallenged, thus he crossed. 

For all the vassalage ; 
But O, what magic's quaint disguise 
Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes ! 

She started from her seat; 
While with surprise and fear she strove, 200 
And both could scarcely master love — 

Lord Henry 's at her feet. 

XIII 

Oft have I mused what purpose bad 
That foul malicious urchin had 

To bring this meeting round. 
For happy love 's a heavenly sight. 
And by a vile malignant sprite 

In such no joy is found; 
And oft I've deemed, perchance he 

thought 20g 

Their erring passion might have wrought 

Sorrow and sin and shame, 
And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight, 



CANTO FIFTH 



71 



And to the gentle Ladye bright 

Disgrace and loss of fame. 
But earthly spirit could not tell 
The heart of them that loved so well. 
True love 's the gift which God has given 
To man alone beneath the heaven : 
It is not fantasy's hot fire, 

Whose wishes soon as granted fly; 220 
It liveth not in fierce desire, 

With dead desire it doth not die; 
It is the secret sympathy, 
The silver link, the silken tie. 
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, 
In body and in soul can bind. — 
Now leave we Margaret and her knight, 
To tell you of the approaching fight. 

XIV 
Their warning blasts the bugles blew, 

The pipe's shrill port aroused each 
clan ; 230 

In haste the deadly strife to view, 

The trooping warriors eager ran: 
Thick round the lists their lances stood, 
Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood ; 
To Branksome many a look they threw, 
The combatants' approach to view. 
And bandied many a word of boast 
About the knight each favored most. 

XV 

Meantime full anxious was the dame; 
For now arose disputed claim 240 

Of who should fight for Deloraine, 
'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane. 
They gan to reckon kin and rent. 
And frowning brow on brow was bent; 

But yet not long the strife — for, lo ! 
Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, 
Strong, as it seemed, and free from pain. 

In armor sheathed from top to toe. 
Appeared and craved the combat due. 
The dame her charm successful knew, 250 
And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew. 

XVI 
When for the lists they sought the plain. 
The stately Ladye's silken rein 

Did noble Howard hold; 
Unarmed by lier side he walked, 
And much in courteous phrase they talked 

Of feats of arms of old. 
Costly his garb — his Flemish rufp 
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff, 

With satin slashed and lined; 260 



Tawny his boot, and gold his spur, 
His cloak was all of Poland fur, 

His hose with silver twined; 
His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt, 
Hung in a broad and studded belt; 
Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still 
Called noble Howard Belted Will. 

XVII 

Behind Lord Howard and the dame 
Fair Margaret on her palfrey came. 

Whose footcloth swept the ground; 270 
White was her wimple and her veil, 
And her loose locks a chaplet pale 

Of whitest roses bound; 
The lordly Angus, by her side, 
In courtesy to cheer her tried; 
Without his aid, her hand in vain 
Had strove to guide her broidered rein. 
He deemed she shuddered at the sight 
Of warriors met for mortal fight; 
But cause of terror, all unguessed, 280 

Was fluttering in her gentle breast. 
When, in their chairs of crimson placed, 
The dame and she the barriers graced. 

XVIII 

Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch 
An English knight led forth to view; 
Scarce rued the boy his present plight, 
So much he longed to see the fight. 
Within the lists in knightly pride 
High Home and haughty Dacre ride; 
Their leading staffs of steel they wield, 290 
As marshals of the mortal field. 
While to each knight their care assigned 
Like vantage of the sun and wind. 
Then heralds hoarse did loud proclaim. 
In King and Queen and Warden's name. 

That none, while lasts the strife, 
Should dare, by look or sign or word. 
Aid to a champion to afford. 

On peril of his life; 
And not a breath the silence broke 300 

Till thus the alternate heralds spoke : — 

XIX 
ENGLISH HERALD 

* Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, 
Good knight and true, and freely born, 

Amends from Deloraine to crave, 
For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. 

He s«ayeth that William of Deloraine 
Is traitor false by Border laws; 



72 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



This with his sword he will maintain, 
So help him God and his good cause ! ' 

XX 

SCOTTISH HERALD 

'Here standeth William of Deloraine, 310 
Good knight and true, of noble strain. 
Who sayeth that foul treason's stain., 
Since he bore arms ne'er soiled his coat; 

And that, so help him God above ! 

He will on Musgrave's body prove 
He lies most foully in his throat.' 

LORD DACRE 

* Forward, brave champions, to the fight I 
Sound trumpets ! ' 

LORD HOME 

* God defend the right ! ' — 
Then, Teviot, how thine echoes rang, 
When bugle-sound and trumpet-clang 320 

Let loose the martial foes, 
And in mid-list, with shield poised high, 
And measured step and wary eye, 

The combatants did close I 

XXI 

111 would it suit your gentle ear. 

Ye lovely listeners, to hear 

How to the axe the helms did sound. 

And blood poured down from many a 

wound ; 
For desperate was the strife and long, 
And either warrior fierce and strong. 330 
But, were each dame a listening knight, 
I well could tell how warriors fight; 
For I have seen war's lightning flashing. 
Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing. 
Seen through red blood the war-horse 

dashing, 
And scorned, amid the reeling strife. 
To yield a step for death or life. 



'T is done, 't is done ! that fatal blow 
Has stretched him on the bloody plain; 

He strives to rise — brave Musgrave, 
no ! ^ 340 

Thence never slialt thou rise again ! 

He chokes in blood — some friendly hand 

Undo the visor's barred band. 

Unfix the gorget's iron clasp. 

And give him room for life to gasp ! — 



O, bootless aid ! — haste, holy friar, 

Haste, ere the sinner shall expire ! 

Of all his guilt let him be shriven. 

And smooth his path from earth to heaven ! 

XXIII 

In haste the holy friar sped ; — 350 

His naked foot was dyed with red, 

As through the lists he ran; 
Unmindful of the shouts on high 
That hailed the conqueror's victory. 

He raised the dying man; 
Loose waved his silver beard and hair, 
As o'er him he kneeled down in prayer ; 
And still the crucifix on high 
He holds before his darkening eye; 
And still he bends an anxious ear, 360 

His faltering penitence to hear ; 

Still props him from the bloody sod. 
Still, even when soul and body part. 
Pours ghostly comfort on his heart, 

And bids him trust in God ! 
Unheard he prays; — the death -pang's 

o'er ! 
Richard of Musgrave breathes no more. 

XXIV 

As if exhausted in the fight. 

Or musing o'er the piteous sight. 

The silent victor stands; 370 

His beaver did he not unclasp. 
Marked not the shouts, felt not the grasp 

Of gratulating hands. 
When lo ! strange cries of wild surprise, 
Mingled with seeming terror, rise 

Among the Scottish bands; 
And all, amid the thronged array, 
In panic haste gave open way 
To a half-naked ghastly man. 
Who downward from the castle ran: 380 
He crossed the barriers at a bound, 
And wild and haggard looked around. 

As dizzy and in pain; 
And all upon the armed ground 

Knew William of Deloraine ! 
Each ladye sprung from seat with speed; 
Vaulted each marshal from his steed; 

* And who art thou,' they cried, 

* Who hast this battle fought and won ? ' 
His plumed helm was soon undone — 390 

* Cranstoun of Teviot-side ! 

For this fair prize I 've fought and won,' — 
And to the Ladye led her son. 



CANTO FIFTH 



73 



XXV 

Full oft the rescued boy she kissed, 
And often pressed him to her breast, 
For, under all her dauntless show, 
Her heart had throbbed at every blow; 
Yet not Lord Cranstoun deigned she greet, 
Though low he kneeled at her feet. 
Me lists not tell what words were made, 400 
What Douglas, Home, and Howard said — 

For Howard was a generous foe — 
And how the clan united prayed 

The Ladye would the feud forego. 
And deign to bless the nuptial hour 
Of Cranstoun's lord and Teviot's Flower. 

XXVI 
She looked to river, looked to hill, 

Thought on the Spirit's prophecy, 
Then broke her silence stern and still: 409 

* Not you, but Fate, has vanquished 
me; 
Their influence kindly stars may shower 
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower. 

For pride is quelled and love is free.' 
She took fair Margaret by the hand. 
Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might 
stand ; 

That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave she: 
* As I am true to thee and thine. 
Do thou be true to me and mine ! 

This clasp of love our bond shall be, 
For this is your betrothing day, 420 

And all these noble lords shall stay, 

To grace it with their company.' 

XXVII 

All as they left the listed plain, 

Much of the story she did gain: 

How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine, 

And of his page, and of the book 

Which from the wounded knight he took; 

And how he sought her castle high, 

That morn, by help of gramarye; 

How, in Sir William's armor dight, 430 

Stolen by his page, while slept the knight, 

He took on him the single fight. 

But half his tale he left unsaid, 

And lingered till he joined the maid. — 

Cared not the Ladye to betray 

Her mystic arts in view of day; 

But well she thought, ere midnight came. 

Of that strange page the pride to tame. 

From his foul hands the book to save, 

And send it back to Michael's grave. — 440 



Needs not to tell each tender word 
'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun's 

lord; 
Nor how she told of former woes. 
And how her bosom fell and rose 
While he and Musgrave bandied blows. — 
Needs not these lovers' joys to tell; 
One day, fair maids, you '11 know them 

well. 

XXVIII 

William of Deloraine some chance 
Had wakened from his deathlike trance. 

And taught that in the listed plain 450 
Another, in his arms and shield, 
Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield, 

Under the name of Deloraine. 
Hence to the field unarmed he ran. 
And hence his presence scared the clan. 
Who held him for some fleeting wraith, 
And not a man of blood and breath. 
Not much this new ally he loved. 
Yet, when he saw what hap had proved. 

He greeted him right heartilie: 460 

He would not waken old debate. 
For he was void of rancorous hate. 

Though rude and scant of courtesy; 
In raids he spilt but seldom blood, 
Unless when men-at-arms withstood. 
Or, as was meet, for deadly feud. 
He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow, 
Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe. 
And so 't was seen of him e'en now. 

When on dead Musgrave he looked 
down : 47c 

Grief darkened on his rugged brow, 

Though half disguised with a frown; 
And thus, while sorrow bent his head, 
His foeman's epitaph he made: 

XXIX 

* Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here, 

I ween, my deadly enemy; 
For, if I slew thy brother dear. 

Thou slew'st a sister's sou to me; 
And when I lay in dungeon dark 

Of Naworth Castle long months three, 48c 
Till ransomed for a thousand mark, 

Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee. 
And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried, 

And thou wert now alive, as I, 
No mortal man should us divide. 

Till one, or both of us, did die : 
Yet rest thee God ! for well I know 
I ne'er shall find a nobler foe. 



74 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



In all the northern counties here, 
Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear, 490 
Thou wert the best to follow gear. 
'T was pleasure, as we looked behind, 
To see how thou the chase couldst wind, 
Cheer the dark bloodhound on his way, 
And with the bugle rouse the fray ! 
I 'd give the lands of Deloraine, 
Dark Musgrave were alive again.' 

XXX 

So mourned he till Lord Dacre's band 
Were bowning back to Cumberland. 
They raised brave Musgrave from the 
field 500 

And laid him on his bloody shield; 
On levelled lances, four and four, 
By turns, the noble burden bore. 
Before, at times, upon the gale 
Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wail ; 
Behind, four priests in sable stole 
Sung requiem for the warrior's soul; 
Around, the horsemen slowly rode; 
With trailing pikes the spearmen trode ; 
And thus the gallant knight they bore 510 
Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore, 
Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave, 
And laid him in his father's grave. 



The harp's wild notes, though hushed the 

song, 
The mimic march of death prolong; 
Now seems it far, and now a-near. 
Now meets, and now eludes the ear. 
Now seems some mountain side to sweep. 
Now faintly dies in valley deep, 
Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, 520 
Now the sad requiem, loads the gale; 
Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, 
Rung the full choir in choral stave. 

After due pause, they bade him tell 
Why he, who touched the harp so well, 
Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil. 
Wander a poor and thankless soil. 
When the more generous Southern Land 
Would well requite his skilful hand. 



The aged harper, howsoe'er 
His only friend, his harp, was dear, 
Liked not to hear it ranked so high 
Above his flowing poesy: 



530 



Less liked he still that scornful jeer 
Misprized the land he loved so dear; 
High was the sound as thus again 
The bard resumed his minstrel strain. 



CANTO SIXTH 



Breathes there the man, with soul so 

dead. 
Who never to himself hath said. 

This is my own, my native land ? 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned 

From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 9 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, — 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self. 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung. 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 



O Caledonia, stern and wild, 

Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood. 

Land of the mountain and the flood, 2c 

Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 

Can e'er untie the filial band 

That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 

Still, as I view each well-known scene. 

Think what is now and what hath been. 

Seems as to me, of all bereft. 

Sole friends thy woods and streams were 

left; 
And thus I love them better still, 
Even in extremity of ill. 
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, 3c 
Though none should guide my feeble way; 
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break. 
Although it chill my withered cheek; 
Still lay my head by Teviot-stone, 
Though there, forgotten and alone. 
The bard may draw his parting groan. 

Ill 

Not scorned like me, to Branksorae Hall 
The minstrels came at festive call; 
Trooping they came from near and far, 



CANTO SIXTH 



75 



The jovial priests of mirth and war; 40 
Alike for feast and fight prepared, 
Battle and banquet both they shared. 
Of late, before each martial clan 
They blew their death-note in the van, 
But now for every merry mate 
Rose the portcullis' iron grate; 
They sound the pipe, they strike the string. 
They dance, they revel, and they sing. 
Till the rude turrets shake and ring. 

IV 

Me lists not at this tide declare 50 

The splendor of the spousal rite, 
How mustered in the chapel fair 

Both maid and matron, squire and 
knight ; 
Me lists not tell of owches rare. 
Of mantles green, and braided hair. 
And kirtles furred with miniver; 
What plumage waved the altar round, 
How spurs and ringing chainlets sound: 
And hard it were for bard to speak 
The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek, 60 
That lovely hue which comes and flies, 
As awe and shame alternate rise ! 



Some bards have sung, the Ladye high 
Chapel or altar came not nigh, 
Nor durst the rites of spousal grace, 
So much she feared each holy place. 
False slanders these : — I trust right well. 
She wrought not by forbidden spell, 
For mighty words and signs have power 
O'er sprites in planetary hour; 70 

Yet scarce I praise their venturous part 
Who tamper with such dangerous art. 
But this for faithful truth I say, — 

The Ladye by the altar stood. 
Of sable velvet her array. 

And on her head a crimson hood. 
With pearls embroidered and entwined. 
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined; 
A merlin sat upon her wrist. 
Held by a leash of silken twist. 80 

VI 

The spousal rites were ended soon; 
'T was now the merry hour of noon, 
And in the lofty arched hall 
Was spread the gorgeous festival. 
Steward and squire, with heedful haste. 
Marshalled the rank of every guest; 



Pages, with ready blade, were there, 

The mighty meal to carve and share: 

O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane. 

And princely peacock's gilded train, 90 

And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave, 

And cygnet from Saint Mary's wave, 

O'er ptarmigan and venison. 

The priest had spoke his benison. 

Then rose the riot and the din. 

Above, beneath, without, within ! 

For, from the lofty balcony, 

Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery: 

Their clanging bowls old warriors quaffed. 

Loudly they spoke and loudly laughed; 100 

Whispered young knights, in tone more 

mild. 
To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. 
The hooded hawks, high perched on beam, 
The clamor joined with whistling scream. 
And flapped their wings and shook their 

bells. 
In concert with the stag-hounds' yells. 
Round go the flasks of ruddy wine. 
From Bordeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine; 
Their tasks the busy sewers ply, 
And all is mirth and revelry. no 



VII 

The Goblin Page, omitting still 

No opportunity of ill. 

Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, 

To rouse debate and jealousy; 

Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, 

By nature fierce, and warm with wine, 

And now in humor highly crossed 

About some steeds his band had lost. 

High words to words succeeding still. 

Smote with his gauntlet stout Huuthill, 120 

A hot and hardy Rutherford, 

Whom men called Dickon Draw-the-Sword. 

He took it on the page's saye, 

Hunthill had driven these steeds away. 

Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, 

The kindling discord to compose ; 

Stern Rutherford right little said. 

But bit his glove and shook his head. 

A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, 129 

Stout Conrad, cold, and drenched in blood. 

His bosom gored with many a wound, 

Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found: 

Unknown the manner of his death, 

Gone was his brand, both sword and sheath; 

But ever from that time, 't was said, 

That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. 



76 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



VIII 

The dwarf, who feared his master's eye 

Might his foiil treachery espie, 

Now sought the castle buttery, 

Where many a yeoman, bold and free, 140 

Revelled as merrily and well 

As those that sat in lordly selle. 

Watt Tinlinn there did frankly raise 

The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes ; 

And he, as by his breeding bound. 

To Howard's merrymen sent it round. 

To quit them, on the English side, 

Red Roland Forster loudly cried, 

* A deep carouse to yon fair bride! ' 

At every pledge, from vat and pail, 150 

Foamed forth in floods the nut-brown ale, 

While shout the riders every one; 

Such day of mirth ne'er cheered their 

clan. 
Since old Buccleuch the name did gain, 
When in the clench the buck was ta'en. 

IX 

The wily page, with vengeful thought, 
Remembered him of Tinlinn's yew, 
And swore it should be dearly bought 

That ever he the arrow drew. 
First, he the yeoman did molest 160 

With bitter gibe and taunting jest; 
Told how he fled at Solway strife. 
And how Hob Armstrong cheered his 

wife; 
Then, shunning still his powerful arm, 
At unawares he wrought him harm; 
From trencher stole his choicest cheer. 
Dashed from his lips his can of beer; 
Then, to his knee sly creeping on. 
With bodkin pierced him to the bone : 
The venomed wound and festering joint 170 
Long after rued that bodkin's point. 
The startled yeoman swore and spurned. 
And board and flagons overturned. 
Riot and clamor wild began ; 
Back to the hall the urchin ran. 
Took in a darkling nook his post. 
And grinned, and muttered, * Lost ! lost ! 
lost ! ' 



By this, the dame, lest farther fray 
Should mar the concord of the day. 
Had bid the minstrels tune their lay. 180 
And first stepped forth old Albert Graeme, 
The minstrel of that ancient name : 



Was none who struck the harp so well 

Within the Land Debatable; 

Well friended too, his hardy kin. 

Whoever lost, were sure to win; 

They sought the beeves that made their 

broth 
In Scotland and in England both. 
In homely guise, as nature bade. 
His simple song the Borderer said. 190 

XI 
ALBERT GR^ME 

It was an English ladye bright, 

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) 

And she would marry a Scottish knight, 
For Love will still be lord of all. 

Blithely they saw the rising sun. 

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; 

But they were sad ere day was done, 
Though Love was still the lord of all. 

Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall ; 200 

Her brother gave but a flask of wine, 
For ire that Love was lord of all. 

For she had lands both meadow and lea. 
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall; 
And he swore her death, ere he would 
see 
A Scottish knight the lord of all ! 

XII 

That wine she had not tasted well, 
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) 

When dead, in her true love's arms, she 
fell. 
For Love was still the lord of all. 210 

He pierced her brother to the heart, 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall ; — 

So perish all would true love part. 
That Love may still be lord of all ! 

And then he took the cross divine. 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall, 

And died for her sake in Palestine, 
So Love was still the lord of all. 



CANTO SIXTH 



77 



Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, 
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) 220 

Pray for their souls who died for love, 
For Love shall still be lord of all ! 

XIII 

As ended Albert's simple lay. 

Arose a bard of loftier port. 
For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay 

Renowned in haughty Henry's court: 
There rung thy harp, unrivalled long, 
Fitztraver of the silver song ! 
The gentle Surrey loved his lyre — 229 

Who has not heard of Surrey's fame ? 
His was the hero's soul of fire. 

And his the bard's immortal name, 
And his was love, exalted high 
By all the glow of chivalry. 

XIV 

They sought together climes afar, 

And oft, within some olive grove, 
When even came with twinkling star, 

They sung of Surrey's absent love. 
His step the Italian peasant stayed, 239 

And deemed that spirits from on high, 
Round where some hermit saint was laid. 

Were breathing heavenly melody; 
So sweet did harp and voice combine 
To praise the name of Geraldine. 

XV 

Fitztraver, O, what tongue may say 

The pangs thy faithful bosom knew. 
When Surrey of the deathless lay 

Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew ? 
Regardless of the tyrant's frown, 
His harp called wrath and vengeance 

down. 
He left, for Na worth's iron towers, 
Windsor's green glades and courtly bowers. 
And, faithful to his patron's name. 
With Howard still Fitztraver came; 
Lord William's foremost favorite he, 
And chief of all his minstrelsy. 

XVI 

FITZTRAVER 

'T was All-souls' eve, and Surrey's heart 
beat high; 
He heard the midnight bell with anx- 
ious start, 
Which told the mystic hour, approaching 
nigh. 



250 



When wise Cornelius promised by his 
art 260 

To show to him the ladye of his heart. 
Albeit betwixt them roared the ocean 
grim; 
Yet so the sage had bight to play bis 
part. 
That he should see her form in life and 
limb. 
And mark if still she loved and still she 
thought of him. 

XVII 

Dark was the vaulted room of grama- 
rye, 
To which the wizard led the gallant 
knight. 
Save that before a mirror, huge and 
high, 
A hallowed taper shed a glimmering 

light 
On mystic implements of magic 
might, 270 

On cross, and character, and talisman, 
And almagest, and altar, nothing 
bright; 
For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan. 
As watch-light by the bed of some depart- 
ing man. 

XVIII 

But soon, within that mirror huge and 

high. 
Was seen a self-emitted light to 

gleam ; 
And forms upon its breast the earl 'gan 

Cloudy and indistinct as feverish 

dream ; 
Till, slow arranging and defined, they 
seem 
To form a lordly and a lofty room, 280 
Part lighted by a lamp with silver 
beam. 
Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom. 
And part by moonshine pale, and part was 
hid in gloom. 

XIX 

Fair all the pageant — but how passing 

fair 
The slender form which lay on couch 

of Ind ! 
O'er her white bosom strayed her hazel 

hair. 



78 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she 

pined ; 
All in her night-robe loose she lay re- 
clined, 
And pensive read from tablet eburnine 
Some strain that seemed her inmost 
soul to find: 290 

That favored strain was Surrey's rap- 
tured line. 
That fair and lovely form the Lady Ger- 
aldine. 

XX 

Slow rolled the clouds upon the lovely 
form, 
And swept the goodly vision all 
away — 
So royal envy rolled the murky storm 
O'er my beloved Master's glorious 

day. 
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant ! Hea- 
ven repay 
On thee, and on thy children's latest 
line. 
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway. 
The gory bridal bed, the plundered 
shrine, 300 

The murdered Surrey's blood, the tears of 
Geraldine ! 

XXI 

Both Scots and Southern chiefs prolong 

Applauses of Fitztraver's song; 

These hated Henry's name as death. 

And those still held the ancient faith. 

Then from his seat with lofty air 

Rose Harold, bard of brave Saint Clair, — 

Saint Clair, who, feasting high at Home, 

Had with that lord to battle come. 

Harold was born where restless seas 310 

Howl round the storm-swept Orcades ; 

Where erst Saint Clairs held princely sway 

O'er isle and islet, strait and bay; — 

Still nods their palace to its fall. 

Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall! — 

Thence oft he marked fierce Pentland rave, 

As if grim Odin rode her wave. 

And watched the wliilst, with visage pale 

And throl)bing heart, the struggling sail ; 

For all of wonderful and wild 220 

Had rapture for the lonely child. 

XXII 

And much of wild and wonderful 
In these rude isles might Fancy cull; 



For thither came in times afar 
Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war, 
The Norsemen, trained to spoil and blood, 
Skilled to prepare the raven's food, 
Kings of the main their leaders brave, 
Their barks the dragons of the wave ; 
And there, in many a stormy vale, 33c 

The Scald had told his wondrous tale, 
And many a Runic column high 
Had witnessed grim idolatry. 
And thus had Harold in his youth 
Learned many a Saga's rhyme uncouth, — 
Of that Sea-Snake, tremendous curled. 
Whose monstrous circle girds the world; 
Of those dread Maids whose hideous yell 
Maddens the battle's bloody swell; 
Of chiefs who, guided through the 

gloom 340 

By the pale death-lights of the tomb, 
Ransacked the graves of warriors old. 
Their falchions wrenched from corpses' 

hold, 
Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms, 
And bade the dead arise to arms ! 
With war and wonder all on flame, 
To Roslin's bowers young Harold came. 
Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree, 
He learned a milder minstrels}^; 
Yet something of the Northern spell 350 
Mixed with the softer numbers well. 

XXIII 



O, listen, listen, ladies gay ! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay. 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 

* Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew ! 

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay ! 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

* The blackening wave is edged with 

white; 360 

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; 
The fishers have heard the Water Sprite, 
Whose screams forebode that wreck is 

nigh. 

* Last night the gifted Seer did view 

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; 
Then stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch: 
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ? ' 



CANTO SIXTH 



79 



* 'T is not because Lord Lindesay's heir 

To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 
But that my ladye-mother there 370 

Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 

* 'T is not because the ring they ride, 

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 
But that my sire the wine will chide, 
If 't is not filled by Rosabelle.' 

O'er Roslin all that dreary night 

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 

'T was broader than the watch-fire light, 
And redder than the bright moonbeam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 380 

It ruddied all the copsewood glen ; 

'T was seen from Dreyden's groves of oak, 
And seen from caverned Hawthornden. 

Seemed all on fire that chapel proud 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie. 

Each baron, for a sable shroud. 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

Seemed all on fire within, around. 
Deep sacristy and altar's pale; 

Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 390 

And glimmered all the dead men's mail. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high. 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 

So still they blaze when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! 

And each Saint Clair was buried there, 400 
With candle, with book, and with knell ; 

But the sea-caves rung and the wild winds 
sung 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

XXIV 

So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, 

Scarce marked the guests the darkened 
hall, 

Though, long before the sinking day, 
A wondrous shade involved them all. 

It was not eddying mist or fog, 

Drained by the sun from fen or bog; 

Of no eclipse had sages told; 410 



And yet, as it came on apace. 
Each one could scarce his neighbor's face, 
Could scarce his own stretched hand be- 
hold. 
A secret horror checked the feast, 
And chilled the soul of every guest; 
Even the high dame stood half aghast. 
She knew some evil on the blast; 
The elfish page fell to the ground. 
And, shuddering, muttered, * Found I 
found ! found ! ' 

XXV 

Then sudden through the darkened air 420 

A flash of lightning came ; 
So broad, so bright, so red the glare. 

The castle seemed on flame. 
Glanced every rafter of the hall, 
Glanced every shield upon the wall: 
Each trophied beam, each sculptured stone. 
Were instant seen and instant gone ; 
Full through the guests' bedazzled band 
Resistless flashed the levin-brand. 
And filled the hall with smouldering 
smoke, 43a 

As on the elfish page it broke. 
It broke with thunder long and loud. 
Dismayed the brave, appalled the proud, — 

From sea to sea the larum rung; 
On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal, 

To arms the startled warders sprung. 
When ended was the dreadful roar. 
The elfish dwarf was seen no more ! 

XXVI 

Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall, 
Some saw a sight, not seen by all; 440 

That dreadful voice was heard by some 
Cry, with loud summons, * Gylbin, come ! ' 

And on the spot where burst the brand. 
Just where the page liad flung him down, 

Some saw an arm, and some a hand. 
And some the waving of a gown. 
The guests in silence prayed and shook. 
And terror dimmed eacli lofty look. 
But none of all the astonished train 
Was so dismayed as Deloraine: 45a 

His blood did freeze, his brain did burn, 
'T was feared his mind would ne'er return; 
For he was speechless, ghastly, wan. 
Like him of whom the story ran. 
Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man. 
At length by fits he darkly told, 
With broken hint and shuddering cold, 

That he had seen right certainly 



8o 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



A shape with amice wrapped around^ 

With a wrought Spanish baldric hound, 460 

Like pilgrim from beyond the sea; 
And knew — but how it mattered not — 
It was the wizard, Michael Scott. 

XXVII 

The anxious crowd, with horror pale, 
All trembling heard the wondrous tale: 
No sound was made, no word was spoke, 
Till noble Angus silence broke; 

And he a solemn sacred plight 
Did to Saint Bride of Douglas make, 
That he a pilgrimage would take 470 

To Melrose Abbey, for the sake 

Of Michael's restless sprite. 
Then each, to ease his troubled breast, 
To some blest saint his prayers addressed: 
Some to Saint Modan made their vows, 
Some to Saint Mary of the Lowes, 
Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, 
Some to Our Lady of the Isle; 
Each did his patron witness make 
That he such pilgrimage would take, 480 
And monks should sing and bells should toll. 
All for the weal of MichaeFs soul. 
While vows were ta'en and prayers were 

prayed, 
'T is said the noble dame, dismayed. 
Renounced for aye dark magic's aid. 

XXVIII 

Nought of the bridal will I tell. 
Which after in short space befell; 
Nor how brave sons and daughters fair 
Blessed Teviot's Flower and Cranstoun's 

heir: 
After such dreadful scene 't were vain 490 
To wake the note of mirth again. 
More meet it were to mark the day 

Of penitence and prayer divine. 
When pilgrim-chiefs, in sad array, 

Sought Melrose' holy shrine. 

XXIX 

With naked foot, and sackcloth vest. 
And arms enfolded on his breast, 

Did every pilgrim go; 
The standers-by might hear uneath 
Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath, 500 

Through all the lengthened row: 
No lordly look nor martial stride, 
Gone was their glory, sunk their pride. 

Forgotten their renown; 
Silent and slow, like ghosts, they glide 



510 



To the high altar's hallowed side. 

And there they knelt them down. 
Above the suppliant chieftains wave 
The banners of departed brave; 
Beneath the lettered stones were laid 
The ashes of their fathers dead; 
From many a garnished niche around 
Stern saints and tortured martyrs frowned. 

XXX 

And slow up the dim aisle afar, 
With sable cowl and scapular. 
And snow-white stoles, in order due, 
The holy fathers, two and two. 

In long procession came; 
Taper and host and book they bare, 
And holy banner, flourished fair 520 

With the Redeemer's name. 
Above the prostrate pilgrim band 
The mitred abbot stretched his hand. 

And blessed them as they kneeled; 
With holy cross he signed them all. 
And prayed they might be sage in hall 

And fortunate in field. 
Then mass was sung, and prayers were 

said. 
And solemn requiem for the dead; 
And bells tolled out their mighty peal 530 
For the departed spirit's weal; 
And ever in the office close 
The hymn of intercession rose; 
And far the echoing aisles prolong 
The awful burden of the song. 

Dies ir^, dies illa, 

solvet s^clum in favilla, 
While the pealing organ rung. 

Were it meet with sacred strain 

To close my lay, so light and vain, 540 
Thus the holy fathers sung: 



HYMN FOR THE DEAD 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day. 
When heaven and earth shall pass away. 
What power shall be the sinner's stay ? 
How shall he meet that dreadful day ? 

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll. 
The flaming heavens together roll. 
When louder yet, and yet more dread, 
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead ! 

O, on that day, that wrathful day, 550 

When man to judgment wakes from clay. 



MARMION: INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



8i 



Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay, 
Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! 



Hushed is the harp — the Minstrel gone. 

And did he wander forth alone ? 

Alone, in indigence and age, 

To linger out his pilgrimage ? 

No: close beneath proud Newark's tower 

Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower, 

A simple hut; but there was seen 560 

The little garden hedged with green. 

The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. 

There sheltered wanderers, by the blaze. 

Oft heard the tale of other days; 

For much he loved to ope his door, 



And give the aid he begged before. 
So passed the winter's day; but still. 
When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill, 
And July's eve, with balmy breath. 
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath, 570 
When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw, 
And corn was green on Carterhaugh, 
And flourished, broad, Blackandro's oak, 
The aged harper's soul awoke ! 
Then would he sing achievements high 
And circumstance of chivalry. 
Till the rapt traveller would stay, 
Forgetful of the closing day; 
And noble youths, the strain to hear, 
Forsook the hunting of the deer; 580 

And Yarrow, as he rolled along, 
Bore burden to the Minstrel's song. 



MARMION 



A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



In August, 1791, when Scott was twenty 
years of age, and shortly before he was called 
to the bar, he made an excursion to North- 
umberland, ostensibly for fishing ; but with 
the keen scent for things and places histor- 
ical which possessed him from his earliest 
years, he revelled especially in the associations 
which rose to mind in all the neighborhood. 
' We are amidst places,' he writes to his friend 
Clerk, ' renowned by the feats of former days ; 
each hill is crowned with a tower or camp, or 
cairn, and in no situation can you be near more 
fields of battle: Flodden, Otterburn, Chevy 
Chase, Ford Castle, Chillingham Castle, Cop- 
land Castle, and many another scene of blood 
are within the compass of a forenoon's ride. . . . 
Often as I have wished for your company, I 
never did it more earnestly than when I rode 
over Flodden Edge. I knew your taste for 
these things, and could have undertaken to 
demonstrate, that never was an affair more 
completely bungled than that day's work was. 
Suppose one army posted upon the face of a 
hill, and secured by high grounds projecting 
on each flank, with the river Till in front, a 
deep and still river, winding through a very 
extensive valley called Milfield Plain, and the 
only passage over it by a narrow bridge, which 
the Scots artillery, from the hill, could in a 
moment have demolished. Add, that the Yavj:;- 
lish must have hazarded a l)attle while tluiir 
troops, which were tumultuously levied, re- 



mained together ; and that the Scots, behind 
whom the country was opened to Scotland, had 
nothing to do but to wait for the attack as they 
were posted. Yet, did two thirds of the army, 
actuated by the perfervidium ingenium Scoto- 
rum, rush down and give an opportunity to 
Stanley to occupy the ground they had quitted, 
by coming over the shoulder of the hill, while 
the other third, under Lord Home, kept their 
ground, and having seen their king and about 
10,000 of their countrymen cut to pieces, re- 
tired into Scotland without loss. For the rea- 
son of the bridge not being destroyed while 
the English passed, I refer you to Pitscottie, 
who narrates at large, and to whom I give 
credit for a most accurate and clear descrip- 
tion, agreeing perfectly with the ground.' 

Seventeen years later Scott availed himself 
of this visit to make the battle on Flodden 
Field the culminating scene of the second 
great poem which he gave the public. As he 
states in his Litroduction, printed below, he 
had retired from his profession, and since tlie 
publication of The Lay of the Last Minstrel 
had been engaged in editing Dryden. But he 
was also now the quarry at wliich the puh- 
lishera were flying, and Constable especially 
was spreadin*^ his wings for that lai*ge enter- 
jnise in which Scott was to play so promi- 
nent a part. As Scott further states in hia 
Introduction, Constable made him a nninificent 
offer of a thousand guineas for the as yet uur 



82 



MARMION 



finished poem of Marmion, and the ofFer came 
just as Scott was in special need of money to 
aid his brother Thomas, then withdrawing 
from his profession as Writer to the Signet. 

The first reference which Scott makes to his 
poem is in a letter to Miss Seward dated Edin- 
burgh, 20 February, 1807 ; * I have at length 
fixed on the title of my new poem, which is to 
be christened, from the principal character, 
Marniion, or A Tale of Flodden Field. There 
are to be six Cantos, and an introductory Epis- 
tle to each, in the style of that which I send 
to you as a specimen. Li the legendary part 
of the work, "Knights, Squires and Steeds 
shall enter on tlie stage." I am not at all 
afraid of my patriotism being a sufferer in the 
course of the tale. It is very true that my 
friend Leyden has said : — 

* " Alas ! that Scottish maid should sing 
The combat where her lover fell, 
That Scottish Bard should wake the string 
The triumph of our foes to tell." 

But we may say with Francis I. " that at Flod- 
den all was lost but our honor, ^^ — an exception 
which includes everything that is desirable for 
a poet.' 

The difficulties into which his brother 
Thomas had fallen were connected with the 
business affairs of the Marquis of Abercorn, for 
whom Thomas Scott had been manager. ' The 
consequence of my brother's failure,' Scott 
wrote later to Miss Seward, ' was that the whole 
affairs of these extensive estates were thrown 
upon my hands in a state of unutterable con- 
fusion, so that to save myself from ruin [he 
was security for his brother] I was obliged to 
lend my constant and unremitting attention 
to their reestablishment.' All this, however, 
though it delayed his poem, produced no es- 
trangement from Lord and Lady Abercorn, 
and on 10 September, 1807, he writes to the 
latter from Ashestiel, ' I have deferred writing 
from day to day, my dear Lady Abercorn, 
until I should be able to make good my pro- 
mise of sending you the first two cantos of Mar- 
mion ; ' and on 22 January, 1808, he writes to 
the same, ' I have finished Marmion, and your 
Ladyship will do me the honor, I hope, to ac- 
cept a copy very soon. In the sixth and last 
canto I have succeeded better than I had ven- 
tured to hope, for I had a battle to fight, and 
I dread hard blows almost as much in poetry 
as in common life.' He had thought of asking 
Lord Abercorn to let him dedicate Marmion to 
him, but was deterred by hearing him express 
his general dLslike to dedications. 

Lockhart points out that Scott was doubt- 
less indebted for the death scene in Marmion 
to Goethe's Goetz von Berlichingen of the Iron 
Hand, which Scott had translated ten years 



before ; but Scott himself, as was his wont, 
made but few allusions to the origin of any 
parts of the poem. He did, indeed, in a letter 
to Miss Seward, 23 November, 1807, give a 
slight explanation of one point, when he wrote, 
' My reason for transporting Marmion from 
Lichfield was to make good the niinstrel pro- 
phecy of Constance's song. Why I should 
ever have taken him there I cannot very well 
say. Attachment to the place, its locality 
with respect to Tamworth, the ancient seat of 
the Marmions, partly, perhaps, the whim of 
taking a slap at Lord Brooke en passant, joined 
in suggesting the idea which I had not time to 
bring out or finish.' And in a letter to Lady 
Louisa Stuart from Edinburgh, 3 March, 1808, 
he writes this unusually full explanation of 
one passage in the poem : — 

' I have thought on your reading about the 
death of Constance, and with all the respect 
which (sans phrase) I entertain for everything 
you honor me with, I have not made up my 
mind to the alteration, and here are my rea- 
sons. Clare has no wish to embitter Marmion' s 
last moments, and is only induced to mention 
the death of Constance because she observes 
that the wounded man's anxiety for her de- 
liverance prevents his attending to his own 
spiritual affairs. It seems natural, however, 
that knowing by the Abbess, or however you 
please, the share which Marmion had in the 
fate of Constance, she should pronounce the 
line assigned to her in such a manner as per- 
fectly conveyed to his conscience the whole 
truth, although her gentleness avoided convey- 
ing it in direct terms. We are to consider, 
too, that Marmion had from various workings 
of his own mind been led to suspect the fate 
of Constance, so that, the train being ready 
laid, the slightest hint of her fate communicated 
the whole tale of terror to his conviction. 
Were I to read the passage, I would hesitate a 
little, like one endeavoring to seek a soft mode 
of conveying painful intelligence : — 

' " In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 
She — died at Holy Isle." 

Perhaps after all this is too fine spun, and re- 
quires more from my gentle readers to fill up 
my sketch than I am entitled to exact. But 
I would rather put in an explanatory couplet 
describing Clare's manner of speaking the 
words, than make her communication more 
full and specific' But the couplet he did not 
add. 

Lockhart in his Life throws a little further 
light on the construction of Marmion by quot- 
ing from a narrative by Mr. Guthrie Wright, 
who had succeeded Thomas Scott in the 
charge of the Abercorn estate. ' In the sum- 
mer of 1807,' he writes, * I had the pleasure of 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



83 



making a trip with Sir Walter to Dumfries, 
for the purpose of meeting the late Lord Aber- 
corn on his way with his family to Ireland. 
His Lordship did not arrive for two or three 
days after we reached Dumfries, and we em- 
ployed the interval in visiting" Sweetheart 
Abbey, Caerlaverock Castle, and some other 
ancient buildings in the neighborhood. . . . 
[Sir Walter] recited poetry and old legends 
from morn till night, and in short it is impossi- 
ble that anything could be more delightful 
than his society ; but what I particularly al- 
lude to is the circumstance, that at that time 
he was writing Marmion, the three or four 
first cantos of which he had with him, and 
which he was so good as to read to me. It is 
unnecessary to say how much I was enchanted 
with them ; but as he good-naturedly asked 
me to state any observations that occurred to 
me, I said in joke that it appeared to me he 
had brought his hero by a very strange route 
into Scotland. " Why," says I, " did ever 
mortal coming from England to Edinburgh go 
by Giiford, Crichton Castle, Borthwick Castle, 
and over the top of Blackford Hill ? Not 
only is it a circuitous dStour, but there never 
was a road that way since the world was 
created ! " " That is a most irrelevant objec- 
tion," said Sir Walter ; " it was my good plea- 
sure to bring Marmion by that route, for the 
purpose of describing the places you have 
mentioned, and the view from Blackford Hill 
— it was his business to find his road and pick 
his steps the best way he could. But, pray, 
how would you have me bring him ? Not by 
the post-road, surely, as if he had been trav- 
elling in a mail-coach ? " " No," I replied ; 
" there were neither post - roads nor mail- 
coaches in those days ; but I think you might 
have brought him with a less chance of getting 
into a swamp, by allowing him to travel the 
natural route by Dunbar and. the sea-coast; 
and then he might have tarried for a space 
with the famous Earl of Angus, surnamed 
Bell-the-Cat, at his favorite residence of Tan- 
tallon Castle, by which means you would have 
had not only that fortress with all his feudal 
followers, but the Castle of Dunbar, the Bass, 
and all the beautiful scenery of the Forth, to 
describe." This observation seemed to strike 
him much, and after a pause he exclaimed — 
"By Jove, you are right ! I ought to liave 
brought him that way ; " and he added, " but 
before he and I part, depend upon it he sliall 
visit Tantallon." He then asked me if I liad 
ever been there, and upon saying I had fre- 
quently, he desired me to describe' it, which I 
did ; and I verily believe it is from wliat I 
then said, that the accurate description con- 
tained in the fifth canto was given — at lejist 
I never heard him say ho had afterwards gone 



to visit the castle ; and when the poem was 
published, I remember he laughed, and asked 
me how I liked Tantallon.' 

The dating of the several poetical Introduc- 
tions gives a hint of Scott's abodes when he was 
engaged upon Marmion. The first four are 
from Ashestiel, and the scenes about that spot 
became identified in his mind with the com- 
position of the poem. ' I well remember his 
saying,' writes Lockhart, ' as I rode with him 
across the hills from Ashestiel to Newark one 
day in his declining years — " Oh, man, I had 
many a grand gallop among these braes when 
I was thinking of Marmion, but a trotting 
canny pony must serve me now." His friend, 
Mr. Skene, however, informs me that many of 
the more energetic descriptions, and particu- 
larly that of the battle of Flodden, were struck 
out while he was in quarters again with his 
cavalry, in the autumn of 1807. " In the in- 
tervals of drilling," he says, "Scott used to 
delight in walking his powerful black steed up 
and down by himself upon the Portobello sands, 
within the beating of the surge ; and now and 
then you would see him plunge in his spurs, 
and go off as if at the charge, with the spray 
dashing about him. As we rode back to Mus- 
selburgh, he often came and placed himself be- 
side me, to repeat the verses that he had been 
composing during these pauses of our exer- 
cise." ' 

It was a year after he began the poem that he 
wrote the Introductory Epistle for Canto IV. at 
Ashestiel. The next month he wrote the fifth 
introduction in Edinburgh ; the last was writ- 
ten during the Christmas festivities of Mertoun 
house, where, as Lockhart says, ^ from the first 
days of his ballad-rhyming, down to the close 
of his life, he, like his bearded ancestor, usu- 
ally spent that season with the immediate head 
of the race.' 

These epistles, it should be remarked, were 
not designed in the firet instance to be inwoven 
with the romance. They were, in fact, an- 
nounced early in 1807 in an advertisement as 
Six Epistles from Ettrick Forest, and were to 
have been published in an independent volume- 
It is perhaps a happier fortune for readers of 
this day than for the first readers of Marmion 
that the epistles were thus inwoven, since they 
serve so emphatically to connect Scott's friend- 
ships with his poetry ; the personal side of 
authorship in Scott's case is written thus indeli- 
bly in the poem. 

Marmion was published February 23, 1808, 
and was seized with avidity by Scott's personal 
friends, and by the public, which called for new 
editions in rapid succession. Every one natu- 
rally compared it with The Laij of the Last Min- 
strel. Southey wrote frankly : ' The story is 
made of better materials than the Lay, yet 



84 



MARMION 



they are not so well fitted together. As a 
whole, it has not pleased me so much — in 
parts, it has pleased me more. There is no- 
thing so finely conceived in your former poem 
as the death of Marmion : there is nothing 
finer in its conception anywhere. The intro- 
ductory epistles I did not wish away, because^ 
as poems, they gave me great pleasure ; but I 
wished them at the end of the volume, or at 
the beginning — anywhere except where they 
were. My taste is perhaps peculiar in disliking 
all interruptions in narrative poetry.' 

Wordsworth, too, wrote with the freedom of 
an accepted friend, and the frankness of these 
brother poets implies the candor also of Scott's 
nature. ' I think your end has been attained. 
That it is not the end which I should wish you 
to propose to yourself, you will be well aware, 
from what you know of my notions of com- 
position, both as to matter and manner. In 
the circle of my acquaintance, it seems as well 
liked as the Xay, though I have heard that in 
the world it is not so. Had the poem been 
much better than the Lay, it could scarcely 
have satisfied the public, which has too much 
of the monster, the moral monster, in its com- 
position.' 

Mr. George Ellis, the accomplished antiqua- 
rian scholar who had made the acquaintance 
of Scott in the days of the Border Minstrelsy^ 
also wrote at length, reflecting in his leisurely 
letter the best judgment of the men of letters 
of the day. After balancing the opinions of 
critics respecting the two poems, he concludes : 
' My own opinion is, that both the productions 
are equally good in their different ways : yet, 
upon the whole, I had rather be the author of 
Marmion than of the Lay, because I think its 
species of excellence of much more difficult 
attainment. What degree of bulk may be es- 
sentially necessary to the corporeal part of an 
Epic poem, I know not ; but sure I am that the 
story of Marmion might have furnished twelve 
books as easily as six — that the masterly 
character of Constance would not have been 
less bewitching had it been much more mi- 
nutely painted — and that De Wilton might 
have been dilated with great ease, and even to 
considerable advantage ; — in short, that had 
it been your intention merely to exhibit a 
spirited romantic story, instead of making that 
story subservient to the delineation of the 
manners which prevailed at a certain period of 
our history, the number and variety of your 
characters would have suited any scale of 
painting.' 

Scott himself in a letter to Surtees, who had 
offered him the subject of Prince Charlie, says : 
'^When you have read over Marmion, which 
has more individuality of character than the 
Lay, although it wants a sort of tenderness 



which the personage of the old minstrel gave 
to my first-born romance, you will be a better 
judge whether I should undertake a work 
which will depend less on incident and descrip- 
tion than on the power of distinguishing and 
marking the dramatis personce.'' And it is a 
commentary on the confusion of literature and 
politics so characteristic of the day, that we 
find him writing to Lady Abercorn : ' All the 
Whigs here (in Edinburgh) are in arms against 
Marmion. If I had satirized Fox, they could 
have borne it, but a secondary place for the god 
of their idolatry puts them beyond the slender 
degree of patience which displaced patriots 
usually possess. I make them welcome to 
cry till they are hoarse against both the book 
and author, as they are not in the habit of hav- 
ing majorities upon their side. I suppose the 
crossed critics of Holland House will take the 
same tone in your Metropolis.' The allusion, of 
course, is to the lines in the Introduction to 
Canto I., beginning with line 126. In illustration 
of the asperity of politics at the time, Scott 
writes to the same correspondent : * The 
Morning Chronicle of the 29th March [1808] has 
made a pretty story of the cancel of page 10th 
of Marmion which your Ladyship cannot but 
recollect was reprinted for the sole purpose of 
inserting the lines suggested so kindly by the 
Marquis : — 

* " For talents mourn, untimely lost, 
"When best employed and wanted most ; " 

I suppose from the carelessness of those who 
arranged the book for binding, this sheet may 
not in a copy or two have been right placed, 
and the worthy Editor affirms kindly that this 
was done that I might have copies to send to 
Mr. Pitt's friends in which these lines do not 
occur I ! ! My publishers here, who for- 
warded the books, have written in great wrath 
to contradict the story, and were surprised to 
find I had more inclination to laugh at it. 
This is a punishment for appropriating my 
neighbor's goods. I suppose it would surprise 
Mr. Morning Chronicle considerably to know 
that the couplet in question was written by 
so distinguished a friend of Mr. Pitt as Lord 
Abercorn.' 

We noted how Scott's youthful excursion 
into the Cheviot Hills found expression later 
in Marmion. It is pleasant to recall that later 
journey made with his family when Marmion 
had made Flodden Field famous. ' Halting at 
Flodden,' is Lockhart's narrative, * to expound 
the field of battle to his young folks, he found 
that Marmion had, as might have been ex- 
pected, benefited the keeper of the public 
house there very largely ; and the village Boni- 
face, overflowing with gratitude, expressed his 
anxiety to have a ScotVs Head for his sign-post 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



8S 



The poet demurred to this proposal, and as- 
sured mine host that nothing could be more 
appropriate than the portraiture of a foaming- 
tankard, which already surmounted his door- 
way. ' ' Why, the painter-man has not made 
an ill job," said the landlord, " but I would 
fain have something more connected with the 
book that has brought me so much good cus- 
tom." He produced a well-thumbed copy, and 
handing it to the author, begged he would at 
least suggest a motto from the tale of Flodden 
Field. Scott opened the book at the death 
scene of the hero, and his eye was immediately 
caught by the " inscription " in black letter — 

* * ' Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and pray 
For the kind soul of Sibyl Grey," etc. 

"Well, my friend," said he, "what more 
would you have ? You need but strike out 
one letter in the first of these lines, and make 
your painter-man, the next time he comes this 
way, print between the jolly tankard and 
your own name — 

' " Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and pay." 

Scott was delighted to find, on his return, that 
this suggestion had been adopted, and for 
aught I know, the romantic legend may still 
be visible.' 

The poem when first published was pre- 
faced by the following 

ADVERTISEMENT 

* It is hardly to be expected that an author 
whom the public have honored with some 
degree of applause should not be again a tres- 
passer on their kindness. Yet the author of 
Marmion must be supposed to feel some anxi- 
ety concerning its success, since he is sensible 
that he hazards, by this second intrusion, any 
reputation which his first poem may have pro- 
cured him. The present story turns upon the 
private adventures of a fictitious character, but 
is called a Tale of Flodden Field, because the 
hero's fate is connected with that memorable 
defeat and the causes which led to it. The de- 
sign of the author was, if possible, to apprise 
his readers, at the outset, of the date of his 
story, and to prepare them for the manners of 
the age in which it is laid. Any historical nar- 
rative, far more an attempt at epic composition, 
exceeded his plan of a romantic tale ; yet he 
may be permitted to hope, from the popularity 
of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, that an attempt 



to paint the manners of the feudal times, upon 
a broader scale, and in the course of a more 
interesting story, will not be unacceptable to 
the public. 

' The poem opens about the commencement 
of August, and concludes with the defeat of 
Flodden, 9th September, 1513. 

' ASHESTIEL, 1808.' 

The poem, as Scott wrote to Lady Abercorn, 
in consequence of an unexampled demand was 
hurried through the press again and a second 
edition was quickly issued ; but second edi- 
tions in those days were not second impres- 
sions from the same type or from plates, and 
the author had an opportunity to make correc- 
tions. Scott heeded Lady Abercorn's criticism 
on the speech of Constance, but after much 
consideration placed a single dash in the line, 
as it now stands (page 105, line 522), to express 
her confusion. A few weeks after, when he 
could look back deliberately on the whole 
poem, he wrote his friend from Edinburgh 
9 June, 1808 : ' No one is so sensible as I am 
of what deficiencies occur in my poetry from 
the want of judicious criticism and correction, 
above all from the extreme hurry in which 
it has hitherto been composed. The worst is 
that I take the pet at the things myself after 
they are finished, and I fear I shall never be 
able to muster up the courage necessary to 
revise Marmion as he should be revised. But 
if I ever write another poem, I am determined 
to make every single couplet of it as perfect 
as my uttermost care and attention can possi- 
bly effect. In order to ensure the accomplish- 
ment of these good resolutions, I will consider 
the whole story in humble prose, and endeavor 
to make it as interesting as I can before I 
begin to write it out in verse, and thus I shall 
have at least the satisfaction to know where I 
am going, my narrative having been hitherto 
much upon the plan of blind man''s huff. Sec- 
ondly, having made my story, I will write my 
poem with all deliberation, and when finished 
lay it aside for a year at least, during which 
quarantine I would be most happy if it were 
suffered to remain in your escritoire or in that 
of the Marquis, who has the best ear for Eng- 
lish versification of any person whom, in a 
pretty extensive acquaintance with literary 
characters, I have ever had the fortune to 
meet with ; nor is his taste at all inferior to liis 
power of appreciating the harmony of verse.' 

When Marmion was reissued in the collective 
edition of 1830, it carried the following — 



86 



MARMION 



INTRODUCTION 



What I have to say respecting this poem 
may be briefly told. In the Introduction to the 
Lay of the Last Minstrel I have mentioned the 
circumstances, so far as my literary life is con- 
cerned, which induced me to resign the active 
pursuit of an honorable profession for the more 
precarious resources of literature. My appoint- 
ment to the Sheriffdom of Selkirk called for 
a change of residence. I left, therefore, the 
pleasant cottage I had upon the side of the Esk, 
for the ' pleasanter banks of the Tweed,' in or- 
der to comply with the law, which requires that 
the sheriff shall be resident, at least during a 
certain mjmber of months, within his jurisdic- 
tion. We found a delightful retirement, by my 
becoming the tenant of my intimate friend and 
cousin-german, Colonel Russel, in his mansion 
of Ashestiel, which was unoccupied during his 
absence on military service in India. The 
house was adequate to our accommodation and 
the exercise of a limited hospitality. The situ- 
ation is uncommonly beautiful, by the side of a 
fine river whose streams are there very favor- 
able for angling, surrounded by the remains of 
natural woods, and by hills abounding in game. 
In point of society, according to the heartfelt 
phrase of Scripture, we dwelt ' amongst our 
own people ; ' and as the distance from the 
metropolis was only thirty mUes, we were not 
out of reach of our Edinburgh friends, in which 
city we spent the terms of the summer and 
winter sessions of the court, that is, five or six 
months in the year. 

An important circumstance had, about the 
same time, taken place in my life. Hopes had 
been held out to me from an influential quar- 
ter, of a nature to relieve me from the anxiety 
which I must have otherwise felt, as one upon 
the precarious tenure of whose own life rested 
the principal prospects of his family, and espe- 
cially as one who had necessarily some depend- 
ence upon the favor of the public, which is 
proverbially capricious ; though it is but justice 
to add that in my own case I have not found 
it so. Mr. Pitt had expressed a wish to my 
personal friend, the Right Honorable William 
Dundas, now Lord Clerk Register of Scotland, 
that some fitting opportunity should be taken 
to be of service to me ; and as my views and 
wishes pointed to a future rather than an im- 
mediate provision, an opportunity of accom- 
plishing this was soon found. One of the 
Principal Clerks of Session, as they are called 
(official persons who occupy an important and 
responsible situation, and enjoy a considerable 
income), who had served upwards of thirty 
years, felt himself, from age and tlie infirmity 
of deafness with which it was accompanied, de- 



sirous of retiring from his official situation. As 
the law then stood, such official persons were 
entitled to bargain with their successors, either 
for a sum of money, which was usually a con- 
siderable one, or for an interest in the emol- 
uments of the office during their life. My 
predecessor, whose services had been unusu- 
ally meritorious, stipulated for the emoluments 
of his office during his life, while I should en- 
joy the survivorship on the condition that I 
discharged the duties of the office in the mean 
time. Mr. Pitt, however, having died in the 
interval, his administration was dissolved, and 
was succeeded by that known by the name of 
the Fox and Grenville Ministry. My affair was 
so far completed that my commission lay in 
the office subscribed by his Majesty ; but, from 
hurry or mistake, the interest of my predeces- 
sor was not expressed in it, as had been usual 
in such cases. Although, therefore, it only 
required payment of the fees, I could not in 
honor take out the commission in the present 
state, since, in the event of my dying before 
him, the gentleman whom I succeeded must 
have lost the vested interest which he had stip- 
ulated to retain. I had the honor of an inter- 
view with Earl Spencer on the subject, and he, 
in the most handsome manner, gave directions 
that the commission should issue as originally 
intended ; adding, that the matter having re- 
ceived the royal assent, he regarded only as a 
claim of justice what he would have wiQingly 
done as an act of favor. I never saw Mr. Fox 
on this or on any other occasion, and never 
made any application to him, conceiving that 
in doing so I might have been supposed to ex- 
press political opinions contrary to those which 
I had always professed. In his private capa- 
city, there is no man to whom I would have been 
more proud to owe an obligation, had I been so 
distinguished. 

By this arrangement I obtained the survi- 
vorship of an office the emoluments of which 
were fully adequate to my wishes ; and as the 
law respecting the mode of providing for su- 
perannuated officers was, about five or six years 
after, altered from that which admitted the ar- 
rangement of assistant and successor, my col- 
league very handsomely took the opportunity 
of the alteration to accept of the retiring annu- 
ity provided in such cases, and admitted me to 
the full benefit of the office. 

But although the certainty of succeeding to 
a considerable income, at the time I obtained 
it, seemed to assure me of a quiet harbor in my 
old age, I did not escape my share of inconven- 
ience from the contrary tides and currents by 
which we are so often encountered in our jour* 



AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 



87 



ney through life. Indeed, the publication of 
my next poetical attempt was prematurely 
accelerated, from one of those unpleasant 
accidents which can neither be foreseen nor 
avoided. 

I had formed the prudent resolution to en- 
deavor to bestow a little more labor than I had 
yet done on my productions, and to be in no 
hurry again to announce myself as a candidate 
for literary fame. Accordingly, particular pas- 
sages of a poem which was finally called Mar- 
mion were labored with a good deal of care by 
one by whom much care was seldom bestowed. 
Whether the work was worth the labor or not, 
I am no competent judge ; but I may be per- 
mitted to say that the period of its composition 
was a very happy one in my life ; so much so, 
that I remember with pleasure, at this moment, 
some of the spots in which particular passages 
were composed. It is probably owing to this 
that the Introductions to the several cantos as- 
sumed the form of familiar epistles to my inti- 
mate friends, in which I alluded, perhaps more 
than was necessary or graceful, to my domestic 
occupations and amusements, — a loquacity 
which may be excused by those who remember 
that I was still young, light-headed, and happy, 
and that 'out of the abundance of the heart 
the mouth speaketh.' 

The misfortunes of a near relation and 
friend, which happened at this time, led me to 
alter my prudent determination, which had 
been to use great precaution in sending this 
poem into the world ; and made it convenient 
at least, if not absolutely necessary, to hasten 
its publication. The publishers of The Lay of 
the Last Minstrel^ emboldened by the success of 
that poem, willingly offered a thousand pounds 
for Marmion. The transaction, being no secret, 
afforded Lord Byron, who was then at general 
war with all who blacked paper, an apology 
for including me in his satire entitled English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers.^ I never could 
conceive how an arrangement between an au- 
thor and his publishers, if satisfactory to the 
persons concerned, could afford matter of cen- 
sure to any third party. I had taken no un- 
usual or ungenerous means of enhancing the 
value of my merchandise, — I had never hig- 
. gled a moment about the bargain, but accepted 
at once what I considered the handsome offer 

1 Lockhart quotes the passage, which is as follows : — 

' Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging Hcrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
Tlie gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; 
A mighty mixtm-e of tlie groat and base. 
And think'Ht tliou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchaoce, 
On public ta8t(5 to foist thy Htalo romance, 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 



of my publishers. These gentlemen, at least, 
were not of opinion that they had been taken 
advantage of in the transaction, which indeed 
was one of their own framing ; on the contrary, 
the sale of the poem was so far beyond their 
expectation as to induce them to supply the 
author's cellars with what is always an accept- 
able present to a young Scottish housekeeper, 
namely, a hogshead of excellent claret. 

The poem was finished in too much haste 
to allow me an opportunity of softening down, 
if not removing, some of its most prominent de- 
fects. The nature of Marmion's guilt, although 
similar instances were found, and might be 
quoted, as existing in feudal times, was never- 
theless not sufficiently peculiar to be indicative 
of the character of the period, forgery being 
the crime of a commercial rather than a proud 
and warlike age. This gross defect ought to 
have been remedied or palliated. Yet I suffered 
the tree to lie as it had fallen. I remember my 
friend. Dr. Leyden, then in the East, wrote me 
a furious remonstrance on the subject. I have, 
nevertheless, always been of opinion that cor- 
rections, however in themselves judicious, have 
a bad effect — after publication. An author is 
never so decidedly condemned as on his own 
confession, and may long find apologists and 
partisans until he gives up his own cause. I 
was not, therefore, inclined to afford matter 
for censure out of my own admissions ; and, by 
good fortune, the novelty of the subject and, 
if I may say so, some force and vivacity of de- 
scription, were allowed to atone for many im- 
perfections. Thus the second experiment on 
the public patience, generally the most peril- 
ous, — for the public are then most apt to judge 
with rigor what in the first instance they had 
received perhaps with imprudent generosity, — 
was in my case decidedly successful. I had the 
good fortune to pass this ordeal favorably, and 
the return of sales before me makes the copies 
amount to thirty-six thousand printed between 
1808 and 1825, besides a considerable sale since 
that period. I shall here pause upon the sub- 
ject of Marmion^ and, in a few prefatory words 
to The Lady of the Lake, the last poem of mine 
which obtained eminent success, I will continue 
the task which I have imposed on myself re- 
specting the origin of my productions. 

Abbotspord, April, 1830. 

To yield thy muse just half a crown per line ? 
No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name. 
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame ; 
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain I 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
Siu^h be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son. 
And bid a long '* Good-uight to Marmiou.*' * 



ss 



MARMION 



MARMION 

A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD 



Alas ! that Scottish maid should sing 

The combat where her lover fell ! 
That Scottish Bard should wake the string, 

The triumph of our foes to tell ! 

Leyden's Ode on Visiti7ig Flodden 



TO THE 

RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY, LORD MONTAGUE, 
&c., &c., &c., 

THIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED BY 
THE AUTHOR. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
FIRST 

TO WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ. 

Ashesiiely Ettrick Forest 

November's sky is chill and drear, 
November's leaf is red and sear: 
Late, gazing down the steepy linn 
That hems our little garden in, 
Low in its dark and narrow glen. 
You scarce the rivulet might ken, 
So thick the tangled greenwood grew. 
So feeble trilled the streamlet through; 
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent 
seen 9 

Through bush and brier, no longer green, 
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade. 
Brawls over rock and wild cascade, 
And, foaming brown with double speed. 
Hurries its waters to the Tweed. 

No longer autumn's glowing red 
Upon our Forest hills is shed; 
No more, beneath the evening beam, 
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam. 
Away hath passed the heather-bell 
That bloomed so rich on Needpath-f ell ; 20 
Sallow his brow, and russet bare 
Are now the sister-heights of Yair. 
The sheep, before the pinching heaven. 
To sheltered dale and down are driven, 



Where yet some faded herbage pines, 
And yet a watery sunbeam shines; 
In meek despondency they eye 
The withered sward and wintry sky, 
And far beneath their summer hill 
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill. 30 

The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold. 
And wraps him closer from the cold: 
His dogs no merry circles wheel, 
But shivering follow at his heel; 
A cowering glance they often cast, 
As deeper moans the gathering blast. 

My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, 
As best befits the mountain child, 
Feel the sad influence of the hour. 
And wail the daisy's vanished flower, 40 
Their summer gambols tell, and mourn. 
And anxious ask, — Will spring return. 
And birds and lambs again be gay, 
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray ? 

Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower 
Again shall paint your summer bower; 
Again the hawthorn shall supply 
The garlands you delight to tie; 
The lambs upon the lea shall bound, 
The wild birds carol to the round; 50 

And while you frolic light as they. 
Too short shall seem the summer day. 

To mute and to material things 
New life revolving summer brings; 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST 



89 



The genial call dead Nature hears, 

And in her glory reappears. 

But oh ! my country's wintry state 

What second spring shall renovate ? 

What powerful call shall bid arise 

The buried warlike and the wise, 60 

The mind that thought for Britain's weal. 

The hand that grasped the victor steel ? 

The vernal sun new life bestows 

Even on the meanest flower that blows; 

But vainly, vainly may he shine 

Where Glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine. 

And vainly pierce the solemn gloom 

That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed tomb ! 

Deep graved in every British heart, 
Oh, never let those names depart I 70 

Say to your sons, — Lo, here his grave 
Who victor died on Gadite wave ! 
To him, as to the burning levin. 
Short, bright, resistless course was given; 
Where'er his country's foes were found. 
Was heard the fated thunder's sound, 
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore. 
Rolled, blazed, destroyed, — and was no 
more. 

Nor mourn ye less his perished worth 
Who bade the conqueror go forth, 80 

And launched that thunderbolt of war 
On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; 
Who, born to guide such high emprise, 
For Britain's weal was early wise; 
Alas ! to whom the Almighty gave. 
For Britain's sins, an early grave! 
His worth who, in his mightiest hour, 
A bauble held the pride of power. 
Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf. 
And served his Albion for herself; 90 

Who, when the frantic crowd amain 
Strained at subjection's bursting rein, 
O'er their wild mood full conquest gained, 
The pride, he would not crush, restrained, 
Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause, 
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the 
freeman's laws. 

Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of 
power, 
A watchman on the lonely tower. 
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land. 
When fraud or danger were at hand; 100 
By thee, as by the beacon-light, 
Our pilots had kept course aright; 
As some proud column, though alouo, 



Thy strength had propped the tottering 

throne. 
Now is the stately column broke. 
The beacon-light is quenched in smoke. 
The trumpet's silver sound is still, 
The warder silent on the hill ! 

Oh, think, how to his latest day. 
When Death, just hovering, claimed his 
prey, no 

With Palinure's unaltered mood, 
Firm at his dangerous post he stood. 
Each call for needful rest repelled. 
With dying hand the rudder held, 
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway. 
The steerage of the realm gave way ! 
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains 
One unpolluted church remains, 
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around 
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, 120 
But still, upon the hallowed day, 
Convoke the swains to praise and pray; 
While faith and civil peace are dear, 
Grace this cold marble with a tear. 
He who preserved them, Pitt, lies here. 

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh 
Because his rival slumbers nigh. 
Nor be thy requiescat dumb 
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb; 
For talents mourn, untimely lost, 130 

When best employed and wanted most; 
Mourn genius high, and lore profound. 
And wit that loved to play, not wound; 
And all the reasoning powers divine, 
To penetrate, resolve, combine; 
And feelings keen, and fancy's glow, 
They sleep with him who sleeps below: 
And, if thou mourn'st they could not save 
From error him who owns this grave, 
Be every harsher thought suppressed, 140 
And sacred be the last long rest. 
Here, where the end of earthly things 
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; 
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, 
Of those who fought, and spoke, and 

sung; 
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong 
The distant notes of holy song, 
As if some angel spoke again, 
* All peace on earth, good-will to men; * 
If ever from an English heart, 15a 

Oh, he7'e let prejudice depart, 
And, partial feeling cast aside. 
Record that Fox a Briton died ! 



90 



MARMION 



When Europe crouched to France's yoke, 
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 
And the firm Russian's purpose brave 
Was bartered by a timorous slave. 
Even then dishonor's peace he spurned. 
The sullied olive-branch returned. 
Stood for his country's glory fast, i6o 

And nailed her colors to the mast ! 
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave 
A portion in this honored grave, 
And ne'er held marble in its trust 
Of two such wondrous men the dust. 

With more than mortal powers endowed. 
How high they soared above the crowd ! 
Theirs was no common party race, 
Jostling by dark intrigue for place; 
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 170 
Shook realms and nations in its jar; 
Beneath each banner proud to stand. 
Looked up the noblest of the land, 
Till through the British world were known 
The names of Pitt and Fox alone. 
Spells of such force no wizard grave 
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, 
Though his could drain the ocean dry, 
And force the planets from the sky. 
These spells are spent, and, spent with 
these, 180 

The wine of life is on the lees. 
Genius and taste and talent gone. 
Forever tombed beneath the stone. 
Where — taming thought to human 

pride ! — 
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; 
O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound. 
And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 
The solemn echo seems to cry, — 190 

* Here let their discord with them die. 
Speak not for those a separate doom 
Whom Fate made brothers in the tomb; 
But search the land, of living men, 
Where wilt thou find their like again ? ' 

Rest, ardent spirits, till the cries 
Of dying nature bid you rise ! 
Not even your Britain's groans can pierce 
The leaden silence of your hearse; 
Then, oh, how impotent and vain 200 

This grateful tributary strain ! 
Though not unmarked from northern 

clime, 
fe heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme: 



His Gothic harp has o'er you rung; 
The Bard you deigned to praise, your 
deathless names has sung. 

Stay yet, illusion, stay a while. 
My wildered fancy still beguile ! 
From this high theme how can I part, 
Ere half unloaded is my heart ! 
For all the tears e'er sorrow drew, 210 

And all the raptures fancy knew, 
And all the keener rush of blood 
That throbs through bard in bardlike mood, 
Were here a tribute mean and low. 
Though all their mingled streams could 

flow — 
Woe, wonder, and sensation high, 
In one spring-tide of ecstacy ! — 
It will not be — it may not last — 
The vision of enchantment 's past: 
Like frostwork in the morning ray, 220 

The fancy fabric melts away; 
Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone. 
And long, dim, lofty aisle are gone; 
And, lingering last, deception dear. 
The choir's high sounds die on my ear. 
Now slow return the lonely down. 
The silent pastures bleak and brown. 
The farm begirt with copsewood wild, 
The gambols of each frolic child. 
Mixing their shrill cries with the tone 230 
Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on. 

Prompt on unequal tasks to run, 
Thus Nature disciplines her son: 
Meeter, she says, for me to stray, 
And waste the solitary day 
In plucking from yon fen the reed, 
And watch it floating down the Tweed, 
Or idly list the shrilling lay 
With which the milkmaid cheers her 

way. 
Marking its cadence rise and fail, 240 

As from the field, beneath her pail. 
She trips it down the uneven dale; 
Meeter for me, by yonder cairn, 
The ancient shepherd's tale to learn, 
Though oft he stop in rustic fear. 
Lest his old legends tire the ear 
Of one who, in his simple mind, 
May boast of book-learned taste refined. 



But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell 
For few have read romance so well — 
How still the legendary lay 
O'er poet's bosom holds its sway; 



250 i 



CANTO FIRST: THE CASTLE 



91 



How on the ancient minstrel strain 
Time lays his palsied hand in vain; 
And how our hearts at doughty deeds, 
By warriors wrought in steely weeds, 
Still throb for fear and pity's sake; 
As when the Champion of the Lake 
Enters Morgan's fated house, 
Or in the Chapel Perilous, 260 

Despising spells and demons' force. 
Holds converse with the unburied corse; 
Or when, Dame Ganore's grace to move — 
Alas, that lawless was their love ! — 
He sought proud Tarquin in his den. 
And freed full sixty knights ; or when, 
A sinful man and unconfessed. 
He took the Sangreal's holy quest, 
And slumbering saw the vision high 
He might not view with waking eye. 270 

The mightiest chiefs of British song 
Scorned not such legends to prolong. 
They gleam through Spenser's elfin dream. 
And mix in Milton's heavenly theme ; 
And Dryden, in immortal strain, 
Had raised the Table Round again, 
But that a ribald king and court 
Bade him toil on, to make them sport; 
Demanded for their niggard pay, 
Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 280 

Licentious satire, song, and play; 
The world defrauded of the high design. 
Profaned the God - given strength, and 
marred the lofty line. 

Warmed by such names, well may we 

then. 
Though dwindled sons of little men, 
i Essay to break a feeble lance 
In the fair fields of old romance; 
Or seek the moated castle's cell. 
Where long through talisman and spell, 
While tyrants ruled and damsels wept, 290 
Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept. 
There sound the harpings of the North, 
Till he awake and sally forth. 
On venturous quest to prick again. 
In all his arms, with all his train, 
Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and 

scarf. 
Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf, 
A.nd wizard with his wand of might. 
And errant maid on palfrey white. 
Around the Genius weave their spells, 300 
Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells; 
Mystery, half veiled and half revealed: 



And Honor, with his spotless shield ; 
Attention, with fixed eye; and Fear, 
That loves the tale she shrinks to hear; 
And gentle Courtesy; and Faith, 
Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death ; 
And Valor, lion-mettled lord, 
Leaning upon his own good sword. 

Well has thy fair achievement shown 31a 
A worthy meed may thus be won: 
Ytene's oaks — beneath whose shade 
Their theme the merry minstrels made. 
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold. 
And that Red King, who, while of old 
Through Boldrewood the chase he led. 
By his loved huntsman's arrow bled — 
Ytene's oaks have heard again 
Renewed such legendary strain; 
For thou hast sung, how he of Gaul, 320 
That Amadis so famed in hall. 
For Oriana, foiled in fight 
The Necromancer's felon might; 
And well in modern verse hast wove 
Partenopex's mystic love: 
Hear, then, attentive to my lay, 
A knightly tale of Albion's elder day. 



CANTO FIRST 



THE CASTLE 



Day set on Norham's castled steep. 
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, 

And Cheviot's mountains lone; 
The battled towers, the donjon keep. 
The loophole grates where captives weep. 
The flanking walls that round it sweep, 

In yellow lustre shone. 
The warriors on the turrets high. 
Moving athwart the evening sky, 

Seemed forms of giant height; w 

Their armor, as it caught the rays, 
Flashed back again the western blaze, 

In lines of dazzling light. 

II 

Saint George's banner, broad and gay, 
Now faded, as the fading ray 

Less bright, and less, was flung; 
The evening gale had scarce the power 
To wave it on the donjon tower, 

So heavily it hung. 



92 



MARMION 



The scouts had parted on their search, 20 

The castle gates were barred ; 
Above the gloomy portal arch, 
Timing his footsteps to a march, 

The warder kept his guard, 
Low humming, as he paced along. 
Some ancient Border gathering song. 

Ill 

A distant trampling sound he hears; 
He looks abroad, and soon appears. 
O'er Horncliff-hill, a plump of spears 

Beneath a pennon gay; 30 

A horseman, darting from the crowd 
Like lightning from a summer cloud, 
Spurs on his mettled courser proud. 

Before the dark array. 
Beneath the sable palisade 
That closed the castle barricade, 

His bugle-horn he blew; 
The warder hasted from the wall, 
And warned the captain in the hall, 

For well the blast he knew; 40 

And joyfully that knight did call 
To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 

IV 

* Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie, 

Bring pasties of the doe, 
And quickly make the entrance free, 
And bid my heralds ready be. 
And every minstrel sound his glee, 

And all our trumpets blow; 
And, from the platform, spare ye not 
To fire a noble salvo-shot; 50 

Lord Marmion waits below ! ' 
Then to the castle's lower ward 

Sped forty yeomen tall. 
The iron-studded gates unbarred. 
Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard. 
The lofty palisade unsparred, 

And let the drawbridge fall. 



Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, 

Proudly his red-roan charger trode. 

His helm hung at the saddle bow; 60 

Well by his visage you might know 

He was a stalworth knight and keen. 

And had in many a battle been; 

The scar on his brown cheek revealed 

A token true of Bosworth field; 

His eyebrow dark and eye of fire 

Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire. 



Yet lines of thought upon his cheek 
Did deep design and counsel speak. 
His forehead, by his casque worn bare, 70 
His thick moustache and curly hair. 
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there. 

But more through toil than age, 
His square-turned joints and strength of 

limb. 
Showed him no carpet knight so trim, 
But in close fight a champion grim. 

In camps a leader sage. 

VI 

Well was he armed from head to heel, 

In mail and plate of Milan steel; 

But his strong helm, of mighty cost, 80 

Was all with burnished gold embossed. 

Amid the plumage of the crest 

A falcon hovered on her nest. 

With wings outspread and forward breast; 

E'en such a falcon, on his shield, 

Soared sable in an azure field: 

The golden legend bore aright, 

* Who checks at me, to death is dight.' 

Blue was the charger's broidered rein; 

Blue ribbons decked his arching mane; 90 

The knightly housing's ample fold 

Was velvet blue and trapped with gold. 

VII 

Behind him rode two gallant squires, 
Of noble name and knightly sires: 
They burned the gilded spurs to claim. 
For well could each a war-horse tame. 
Could draw the bow, the sword could 

sway. 
And lightly bear the ring away; 
Nor less with courteous precepts stored, 
Could dance in hall, and carve at board. 
And frame love-ditties passing rare, loi 
And sing them to a lady fair. 

VIII 

Four men-at-arms came at their backs. 

With halbert, bill, and battle-axe; 

They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong. 

And led his sumpter-mules along. 

And ambling palfrey, when at need 

Him listed ease his battle-steed. 

The last and trustiest of the four 

On high his forky pennon bore; no 

Like swallow's tail in shape and hue. 

Fluttered the streamer glossy blue, 

Where, blazoned sable, as before, 

The towering falcon seemed to soar. 



CANTO FIRST: THE CASTLE 



93 



Last, twenty yeomen, two and two 
In hosen black and jerkins blue. 
With falcons broidered on each breast, 
Attended on their lord's behest. 
Each, chosen for an archer good, 
Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood; 120 
Each one a six-foot bow could bend. 
And far a cloth-yard shaft could send; 
Each held a boar-spear tough and strong, 
And at their belts their quivers rung. 
Their dusty palfreys and array 
Showed they had marched a weary way. 

IX 

'T is meet that I should tell you now, 
How fairly armed, and ordered how, 

The soldiers of the guard, 
With musket, pike, and morion, 130 

To welcome noble Marmion, 

Stood in the castle-yard; 
Minstrels and trumpeters were there, 
The gunner held his linstock yare. 

For welcome-shot prepared: 
Entered the train, and such a clang 
As then through all his turrets rang 

Old Norham never heard. 



The guards their morrice-pikes advanced, 

The trumpets flourished brave, 140 

The cannon from the ramparts glanced, 

And thundering welcome gave. 
A blithe salute, in martial sort. 

The minstrels well might sound. 
For, as Lord Marmion crossed the court. 

He scattered angels round. 
* Welcome to Norham, Marmion ! 

Stout heart and open hand ! 
Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan, 

Thou flower of English land ! ' 



150 



XI 



Two pursuivants, whom tabards deck. 
With silver scutcheon roui^d their neck. 

Stood on the steps of stone 
By which you reach the donjon gate. 
And there, with herald pomp and state. 

They hailed Lord Marmion: 
They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, 

Of Tamworth tower and town; 
And he, their courtesy to requite, 160 

Gav^ them a chain of twelve marks* 
weight, 

Ar as he lighted down. 



* Now, largesse, largesse. Lord Marmion, 

Knight of the crest of gold ! 

A blazoned shield, in battle won, 

Ne'er guarded heart so bold.' 

XII 

They marshalled him to the castle-hall. 
Where the guests stood all aside, 

And loudly flourished the trumpet-call, 
And the heralds loudly cried, — ijc 

* Room, lordlings, room for Lord Marmion, 

With the crest and helm of gold ! 
Full well we know the trophies won 

In the lists at Cottiswold: 
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 

'Gainst Marmion's force to stand; 
To him he lost his lady-love. 

And to the king his land. 
Ourselves beheld the listed field, 

A sight both sad and fair; iSo 

We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield. 

And saw his saddle bare; 
We saw the victor win the crest 

He wears with worthy pride. 
And on the gibbet-tree, reversed. 

His foeman's scutcheon tied. 
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight ! 

Room, room, ye gentles gay, 
For him who conquered in the right, 

Marmion of Fontenaye ! ' 190 

XIII 

Then stepped, to meet that noble Iot^- 
Sir Hugh the Heron bold, 3 one 

Baron of Twisell and of Ford, ,' 

And Captain of the Hold; fay, 

He led Lord Marmion to the dea^w sa^^' 

Raised o'er the pavement high. 
And placed him in the upper plact 

They feasted full and high: 
The whiles a Northern harper rude 
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud, '^^> ^90 
* How the fierce Thir walls, and Ri(J > 
all. 
Stout Willimondswick, 
And Hardriding Dick, 
And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o' the 
Wall, 
Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh, 
And taken his life at the Dead-man's- 
shaw.' 
Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could brook 

The harper's barbarous lav, 
Yet much he praised the pains he took, 
And well those pains did pay; 210 



94 



MARMION 



For lady's suit and minstrers strain 
By knight should ne'er be heard in vain. 

XIV 

* Now, good Lord Marmion,' Heron says, 

* Of your fair courtesy, 
I pray you bide some little space 

In this poor tower with me. 
Here may you keep your arms from rust, 

May breathe your war-horse well; 
Seldom hath passed a week but joust 

Or feat of arms befell. 220 

The Scots can rein a mettled steed. 

And love to couch a spear; — 
Saint George ! a stirring life they lead 

That have such neighbors near ! 
Then stay with us a little space, 

Our Northern wars to learn; 
I pray you for your lady's grace ! ' 

Lord Marmion's brow grew stern. 

XV 

The captain marked his altered look, 
And gave the squire the sign; 230 

A mighty wassail-bowl he took, 
And crowned it high with wine. 

* Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion; 

But first I pray thee fair. 
Where hast thou left that page of thine 
T'hat used to serve thy cup of wine, 
Anu'^ose beauty was so rare ? 
And last in Baby-towers we met. 

Ana oy I closely eyed, 
And, frvn marked his cheeks were wet 240 
To fire cears he fain would hide. 

Lord >io rugged horse-boy's hand. 
Then to^h shield or sharpen brand, 

Sped die battle-steed, 
The irQi^ej, seemed for lady fair, 
Baisecjier cheek, or curl her hair, 
The rough embroidery, rich and rare, 
Ae slender silk to lead; 
. skin was fair, his ringlets gold. 
His bosom — when he sighed, 250 

ne russet doublet's rugged fold 
Could scarce repel its pride ! 
Say, hast thou given that lovely youth 

To serve in lady's bower ? 
Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 
A gentle paramour ? ' 

XVI 

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest; 
He rolled his kindling eye, 



With pain his rising wrath suppressed, 
Yet made a calm reply: 260 

* That boy thou thought so goodly fair, 
He might not brook the Northern air. 
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn, 
I left him sick in Lindisfarne. 
Enough of him. — But, Heron, say, 
Why does thy lovely lady gay 
Disdain to grace the hall to-day ? 

Or has that dame, so fair and sage, 
Gone on some pious pilgrimage ? ' — 
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame 270 

Whispered light tales of Heron's dame. 

XVII 

Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt, 
Careless the knight replied: 

* No bird whose feathers gayly flaunt 

Delights in cage to bide ; 
Norham is grim and grated close, 
Hemmed in by battlement and fosse, 

And many a darksome tower, 
And better loves my lady bright 
To sit in liberty and light 280 

In fair Queen Margaret's bower. 
We hold our greyhound in our hand, 

Our falcon on our glove. 
But where shall we find leash or band 

For dame that loves to rove ? 
Let the wild falcon soar her swing, 
She '11 stoop when she has tired her 
wing.' — 

XVIII 

* Nay, if with Royal James's bride 
The lovely Lady Heron bide. 

Behold me here a messenger, 290 

Your tender greetings prompt to bear; 
For, to the Scottish court addressed, 
I journey at our king's behest. 
And pray you, of your grace, provide 
For me and mine a trusty guide. 
I have not ridden in Scotland since 
James backed the cause of that moc]< 

prince 
Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit, 
Who on the gibbet paid the cheat. 
Then did I march with Surrey's power, 30c 
What time we razed old Ay ton tower.' — 

XIX 

* For such-like need, my lord, I trow, 
Norham can find you guides enow; 
For here be some have pricked as far 
On Scottish groimd as to Dunbar, 



CANTO FIRST: THE CASTLE 



95 



Have drunk the monks of Saint Bothan's 

ale, 
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale, 
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods, 
And given them light to set their hoods.' — 

XX 

*Now, in good sooth,' Lord Marmion 
cried, 3 lo 

* Were I in warlike wise to ride, 
A better guard I would not lack 
Than your stout f orayers at my back ; 
But as in form of peace I go, 
A friendly messenger, to know. 
Why, through all Scotland, near and far. 
Their king is mustering troops for war. 
The sight of plundering Border spears 
Might justify suspicious fears. 
And deadly feud or thirst of spoil 320 

Break out in some unseemly broil. 
A herald were my fitting guide ; 
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide; 
Or pardoner, or travelling priest. 
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least.' 

XXI 

The captain mused a little space, 

And passed his hand across his face. — 

* Fain would I find the guide you want, 

But ill may spare a pursuivant. 

The only men that safe can ride 330 

Mine errands on the Scottish side : 

And though a bishop built this fort, 

Few holy brethren here resort; 

Even our good chaplain, as I ween, 

Since our last siege we have not seen. 

The mass he might not sing or say 

Upon one stinted meal a day; 

So, safe he sat in Durham aisle. 

And prayed for our success the while. 

Our Norham vicar, woe betide, 340 

Is all too well in case to ride ; 

The priest of Shoreswood — he could rein 

The wildest war-horse in your train, 

But then no spearman in the hall 

Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 

Friar John of Tillmouth were the man ; 

A blithesome brother at the can, 

A welcome guest in hall and bower. 

He knows each castle, town, and tower, 

In which the wine and ale is good, 350 

'Twixt Newcastle and IIoly-Bood. 

But that good man, as ill befalls, 

Hath seldom left our castle walls. 



Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede, 

In evil hour he crossed the Tweed, 

To teach Dame Alison her creed. 

Old Bughtrig found him with his wife. 

And John, an enemy to strife, 

Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. 

The jealous churl hath deeply swore 360 

That, if again he venture o'er. 

He shall shrieve penitent no more. 

Little he loves such risks, I know. 

Yet in your guard perchance will go.' 

XXII 

Young Selby, at the fair hall-board, 
Carved to his uncle and that lord. 
And reverently took up the word: 

* Kind uncle, woe were we each one, 
If harm should hap to brother John. 

He is a man of mirthful speech, 370 

Can many a game and gambol teach; 
Full well at tables can he play. 
And sweep at bowls the stake away. 
None can a lustier carol bawl. 
The needfullest among us all, 
When time hangs heavy in the hall. 
And snow comes thick at Christmas tide. 
And we can neither hunt nor ride 
A foray on the Scottish side. 
The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude 3S0 
May end in worse than loss of hood. 
Let friar John in safety still 
In chimney-corner snore his fill. 
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill ; 
Last night, to Norham there came one 
Will better guide Lord Marmion.' — 

* Nephew,' quoth Heron, * by my fay. 
Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say.' — 

XXIII 

* Here is a holy Palmer come, 

From Salem first, and last from Rome; 390 

One that hath kissed the blessed tomb. 

And visited each holy shrine 

In Araby and Palestine; 

On hills of Armenie hath been. 

Where Noah's ark may yet be seen; 

By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod. 

Which parted at the Prophet's rod; 

In Sinai's wilderness he saw 

The Mount where Israel heard the law, 

Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin, 400 

And shadows, mists, and darkness, given. 

lie shows Saint James's cockle-shell. 

Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell; 



96 



MARMION 



And oi ihAt Gio( where OlivcS nod, 
Wkeie^ *k»<i»*g oi eaeh heart and eje, 
Tjom an liie yondi of SidlT. 

SamlBosalie retired to God. 

XXIV 

* To stoat Saint George of Xorwich merry, 
Saint Thianas* tooi^of Canterbary, 
Cvi&beit of Dmlnm and Saint Bede, 4x0 
For liis sins' pardon liatli he prayed. 
Hefcaoms the passes of the !N^ortli, 

And seds fur shnnes hejond the Forth; 
Litde he eat% and loBg will wake^ 
And drinks hot of the stream or lake. 
This wexe a guide o'er moor and dale; 
Bmk when our John hath quaffed his ale. 
As little as the wind that 1ilows» 
And warms itself against his nose. 
Kens he^cH^eareSyWhidiwajhegoes^' — 420 

XXV 

* Gramerej ! * qnolh Lord Manoion, 
<Fnn kath were I that Friar John^ 
Thai Tcnerahle man, for me 
Were plaeed in fear or jeopardy: 
If Oii same Fbfaner win me lead 

From hence to Holy-Bood, 
Like his good saint, 1 11 pay his meed, 
Inataid of eocUe-shell or head, 

Wia ai^ds fur and good. 
I lote soch holy ramfaleEs; still 430 

They know to eharm a weary hill 

Widk aoB^ rananeey or lay: 
SooK jovial tale^ or g^be, or jest. 
Some ^fin^ legend, at tiie least. 

They hang to cheer tiie way.' — 

xxn 

ar^' yom^ Selby said, 
on his Iqihe laid, 
knows mueh, perehanee e'en 

Than he could learn hy faofy kre. 

StiD tohimsdf he 's muttering 440 

And shrinks as at some ■«■*** ■■ thing 

htat niglit we listened at his eeD; 

Stzaage sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell, 

Hb nmrmured on till mom, howe'er 

Xo firing mortal eould he near. 

Sometimes I thought I heard it plain. 

As other roiees tpoke again. 

I cannot ten — I like it not— 

Friar John hath told « it » wrote, 

^o eonscience dear and Toid of wrong 490 

Can rest awake and pray so long. 




Himself still sleeps before his beads 
HaTe marked ten aves and two creeds.' — 

xxvn 

* Lei pass,' quoth Marmion ; < by my fay, 
This man sl^n guide me on my way, 
AlthoQgh the great areh-fiend and he 
Had swinn themselTes of company. 

So please you, gentle youth, to eall 
This Palmer to the castle-halL' 
The summoned Palmer came in place : 
His sable cowl o'erhung' his face ; 
In his blact mantle was he clad. 
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red. 

On his broad shoulders wrought; 
The scallop shell his cap did deck; 
The erucifiz around his neck 

Was from Loretto brought; 
His sandals were with traTel tore, 
Stal^ hudget, bottle, scrip, he wore; 
The £ided palm-branch in his hand 
Showed inlgrim from the Holy Land. 

xxvm 
Wbenas the Palmer came in hall, 
Xor lord nor knight was there more tall. 
Or had a statelier step withal. 

Or looked more hi^ and keen; 
For no saluting did he wait. 
But strode across the han of state^ 
And fronted Marmion where he sate, 

As he his peer had been. 479 

But his gaunt frame was worn with toil; 
His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! 
And wheal he s tru ggled at a smile 

His eye looked haggard wild: 
Poor wrcteh, the motherthat him bare. 
If she had been in presence there. 
In his wan face and sunbomt hair 

She bad not known her ehild. 
Danger, long truTel, want, or woe, 
Soon ehange the f onn that best we know — 
For deadly fear can time outgo^ 

And blanch at once the hair; 
£[ard tinl can roughen form and face, 
And want can quench the eye's bright 

grace, 
Xor does old age a wrinkle trace 

More de^y than despair. 
Happy whom none of these befall. 
But this poor Palmer knew them all 

XXIX 

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask; 
The Palmer took on him the task. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND 



97 



So he wonJd march with moniiiig tide, 500 
To Seottiili eaart to be his guide. 
^ Bat I have solemn tows to pay. 
And maj not linger by the waj. 

To &ur Saint Andrew's boimd. 
Within the oeean-eaye to praj. 
Where good Saint &ile his holy la j. 
From midnight to the dawn of daj, 

Snng to the billows' soond; 
Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, 509 
Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel. 

And the crazed brain restore. 
Saint Marj grant that ca^e or ^ling 
Coold back to peace m j bosom bring. 

Or bid it throb no more ! ' 

XXX 

And now tiie midnight draught ci sleep. 
Where wine and spices richlj steep. 
In massiTC bowl of silver deep. 

The page presents cm knee. 
Loid Marmiim drank a fair good rest, 
The captain pledged his noble guest, 520 
The eup went through among the rest. 

Who drained it merrilj; 
Alone the Palmer passed it bj. 
Though Selbj preyed him c ourie ooa^. 
This was a sign the feast was o'er; 
It hushed the menj wassail roar. 

The minstrels eeased to sound. 
Soon in the castle nought was heard 
Bat the slow footstep of the guard 

Facing his sober round. 590 



With early dawn Loid Marmioii rose: 
And first the chapel doors unclose; 
Then, after nMxming rites were done — 
A hasty mass from Fiiar John — 
And knight and sqnire had broke tbeir 

fast 
On rich substantial repast. 
Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse. 
Then came the stirmp-eup in course: 
Between the baron and his host, 
Xo point of courtesy was lost; ^r 

High tHanW were by Lord Marmion paid. 
Solemn excuse the captain made, 
TQl, filing from the gate, had passed 
That noble train, their lord the last. 
Then loudly rung the trumpet call; 
Thundered the cannon from the wall. 

And shook the Scottish shore; 
Around the castle eddied slow 
Volumes of smoke as white as snow 



A nd hid its turrets hoar, 
Tm tliey loHed f cvth i^on the air^ 
And met the rirer bteoes there. 
Which gare again Ae psospeet fair. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
SECOND 

TO THS. REV. JOHN MAUaOTT, AJf. 

AshtUiH^ EOrick FartU 

The aeenes are desert now and haie^ 
Where flowished onee a fogest fsax^ 
WliCB these waste glens with 

lioed. 
And pec^led with the hart and 
Yon 



tham — perehanee whose pridkfy 

^eais 
Hare f&^eed him for three hundred yeazs^ 
While fell around his green compeers — 
Yon latMEitj thorn, wovld he eould ttH 
The ehanges of Ids parent ddl, 
^mee he, so gray and stohboni now, » 
Wared in each hreese a saplii^ hoogh ! 
Would he could teU how deep tiie diade 
A thousand mingled bnmdies made; 
How broad the shadows of the oak. 
How dung the rowan to the rock. 
And through the f cdiage showed his head. 
With narrow leaTes and hemes red; 
What pines on erezy mom 
Cer eireiy ddl iribat birdes 1 
In CTeiy hieeae what a^a 
What alden dnded every hEook ! 

* Here, in my shade,' methinks he 'd say, 
* The mightf stag at annBtidp lay ; 
The wolf I 're seen, a fiercer game, — 
The neighboring dingle bears his name, — 
With lurching step aroond me ptowi. 
And stop, against the moon to howl; 
The mountain-boar, on battle s^ 
His tusks upon my steni would iHiet; 
While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, k* 
Hare bounded by through gay greenwood. 
Then oft from Newark's riToi tower 
Sallied a Scottish nMnaxv^'s power: 
A t hnnnsnd i i nn s ln maiitiifi l iiiunil. 
With hosse, and hawk, and hon, and 



And I might see the yonfth 
Guard eieij pass with 

the brake the 



98 



MARMION 



And falconers bold the ready hawk; 

And foresters, in Greenwood trim, 40 

Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim, 

Attentive, as the bratchet's bay 

From the dark covert drove the prey, 

To slip them as he broke away. 

The startled quarry bounds amain, 

As fast the gallant greyhounds strain; 

Whistles the arrow from the bow, 

Answers the harquebuss below; 

While all the rocking hills reply 

To hoof -clang, hound, and hunters' cry, 50 

And bugles ringing lightsomely.' 

Of such proud huntings many tales 
Yet linger in our lonely dales, 
Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow, 
Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow. 
But not more blithe that sylvan court. 
Than we have been at humbler sport; 
Though small our pomp and mean our 

game. 
Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same. 
Remember'st thou my greyhounds true ? 
O'er holt or hill there never flew, 61 

From slip or leash there never sprang. 
More fleet of foot or sure of fang. 
Nor dull, between each merry chase, 
Passed by the intermitted space; 
For we had fair resource in store. 
In Classic and in Gothic lore: 
We marked each memorable scene, 
And held poetic talk between; 
Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 70 

But had its legend or its song. 
All silent now — for now are still 
Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill ! 
No longer from thy mountains dun 
The yeoman hears the well-known gun, 
And while his honest heart glows warm 
At thought of his paternal farm. 
Round to his mates a brimmer fills, 
And drinks, * The Chieftain of the Hills ! ' 
No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, 80 

Trip o'er the walks or tend the flowers. 
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw 
By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh; 
No youthful Baron 's left to grace 
The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chace. 
And ape, in manly step and tone, 
The majesty of Oberon: 
And she is gone whose lovely face 
Is but her least and lowest grace; 89 

Though if to Sylphid Queen 't were given 
To show our earth the charms of heaven, 



She could not glide along the air 

With form more light or face more fair. 

No more the widow's deafened ear 

Grows quick that lady's step to hear: 

At noontide she expects her not. 

Nor busies her to trim the cot; 

Pensive she turns her humming wheel, 

Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal. 

Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 10c 

The gentle hand by which they 're fed. 

From Yair — which bills so closely bind, 
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find. 
Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, 
Till all his eddying currents boil — 
Her long-descended lord is gone. 
And left us by the stream alone. 
And much I miss those sportive boys. 
Companions of my mountain joys. 
Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, 1 10 
When thought is speech, and speech is 

truth. 
Close to my side with what delight 
They pressed to hear of Wallace wight. 
When, pointing to his airy mound, 
I called his ramparts holy ground ! 
Kindled their brows to hear me speak; 
And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, 
Despite the difference of our years, 
Return again the glow of theirs. 
Ah, happy boys ! such feelings pure, m 
They will not, cannot long endure ; 
Condemned to stem the world's rude tide. 
You may not linger by the side; 
For Fate shall thrust you from the shore 
And Passion ply the sail and oar. 
Yet cherish the remembrance still 
Of the lone mountain and the rill ; 
For trust, dear boys, the time will come. 
When fiercer transport shall be dumb. 
And you will think right frequently, 130 
But, well I hope, without a sigh. 
On the free hours that we have spent 
Together on the brown hill's bent. 

When, musing on companions gone, 
We doubly feel ourselves alone. 
Something, my friend, we yet may gain; 
There is a pleasure in this pain: 
It soothes the love of lonely rest, 
Deep in each gentler heart impressed. 
'T is silent amid worldly toils, 140 

And stifled soon by mental broils; 
But, in a bosom thus prepared. 
Its still small voice is often heard, 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND 



99 



Whispering a mingled sentiment 

^wixt resignation and content. 

Oft in my mind such thoughts awake 

By lone Saint Mary's silent lake : 

Thou know'st it well, — nor fen nor sedge 

Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; 

Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 150 

At once upon the level brink. 

And just a trace of silver sand 

Marks where the water meets the land. 

Far in the mirror, bright and blue, 

Each hill's huge outline you may view; 

Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare. 

Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there, 

Save where of land yon slender line 

Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine. 

Yet even this nakedness has power, 160 

And aids the feeling of the hour: 

Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, 

Where living thing concealed might lie; 

Nor point retiring hides a dell 

Where swain or woodman lone might 

dwell. 
There 's nothing left to fancy's guess, 
You see that all is loneliness: 
And silence aids — though the steep hills 
Send to the lake a thousand rills ; 
In summer tide so soft they weep, 170 

The sound but lulls the ear asleep; 
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, 
So stilly is the solitude. 

Nought living meets the eye or ear. 
But well I ween the dead are near; 
For though, in feudal strife, a foe 
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low. 
Yet still, beneath the hallowed soil, 
The peasant rests him from his toil. 
And dying bids his bones be laid 180 

Where erst his simple fathers prayed. 

If age had tamed the passions' strife. 
And fate had cut my ties to life. 
Here have I thought 't were sweet to 

dwell. 
And rear again the chaplain's cell. 
Like that same peaceful hermitage. 
Where Milton longed to spend his age. 
'T were sweet to mark the setting day 
On Bourhope's lonely top decay. 
And, as it faint and feeble died 190 

On the broad lake and mountain's side, 
To say, * Thus pleasures fade away; 
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay, 
And leave us dark, forlorn, and gray;* 



Then gaze on Dryhope's ruined tower, 

And think on Yarrow's faded Flower; 

And when that mountain-sound I heard, 

Which bids us be for storm prepared. 

The distant rustling of his wings. 

As up his force the Tempest brings, 200 

'T were sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, 

To sit upon the Wizard's grave. 

That Wizard Priest's whose bones are 

thrust 
From company of holy dust; 
On which no sunbeam ever shines — 
So superstition's creed divines — 
Thence view the lake with sullen roar 
Heave her broad billows to the shore ; 
And mark the wild-swans mount the gale. 
Spread wide through mist their snowy 

sail, 2 xo 

And ever stoop again, to lave 
Their bosoms on the surging wave; 
Then, when against the driving hail 
No longer might my plaid avail. 
Back to my lonely home retire. 
And light my lamp and trim my fire ; 
There ponder o'er some mystic lay. 
Till the wild tale had all its sway. 
And, in the bittern's distant shriek, 
I heard unearthly voices speak, 220 

And thought the Wizard Priest was come 
To claim again his ancient home ! 
And bade my busy fancy range. 
To frame him fitting shape and strange, 
Till from the task my brow I cleared. 
And smiled to think that I had feared. 

But chief 't were sweet to think such 
life — 
Though but escape from fortune's strife — 
Something most matchless good and wise, 
A great and grateful sacrifice, 230 

And deem each hour to musing given 
A step upon the road to heaven. 

Yet him whose heart is ill at ease 
Such peaceful solitudes displease; 
He loves to drown his bosom's jar 
Amid the elemental war: 
And my black Palmer's choice bad been 
Some ruder and more savage scene, 
Like that which frowns round dark Loch' 

Skene. 
There eagles scream from isle to sliore; 240 
Down all the rocks the torrents roar; 
O'er the black waves incessant driven, 
Dark mists infect the summer heaven; 



lOO 



MARMION 



Through the rude barriers of the lake, 
Away its hurrying waters break, 
Faster and whiter dash and curl, 
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl. 
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow. 
Thunders the viewless stream below, 
Diving, as if condemned to lave 250 

Some demon's subterranean cave, 
Who, prisoned by enchanter's spell. 
Shakes the dark rock with groan and 

yell. 
And well that Palmer's form and mien 
Had suited with the stormy scene. 
Just on the edge, straining his ken 
To view the bottom of the den, 
Where, deep deep down, and far within, 
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn; 
Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, 260 
And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, 
White as the snowy charger's tail. 
Drives down the pass of Moffatdale. 

Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung. 
To many a Border theme has rung : 
Then list to me, and thou shalt know 
Of this mysterious Man of Woe. 



CANTO SECOND 



THE CONVENT 



The breeze which swept away the smoke 

Round Norham Castle rolled. 
When all the loud artillery spoke 
With lightning-flash and thunder-stroke, 

As Marmion left the hold, — 
It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze. 
For, far upon Northumbrian seas. 

It freshly blew and strong. 
Where, from high Whitby's cloistered pile. 
Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle, lo 

It bore a bark along. 
Upon the gale she stooped her side, 
And bounded o'er the swelling tide, 

As she were dancing home; 
The merry seamen laughed to see 
Their gallant ship so lustily 

Furrow the green sea-foam. 
Much joyed they in their honored freight; 
For on the deck, in chair of state. 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, 20 

With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 



II 

'T was sweet to see these holy maids. 
Like birds escaped to greenwood shades, 

Their first flight from the cage. 
How timid, and how curious too. 
For all to them was strange and new. 
And all the common sights they view 

Their wonderment engage. 
One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, 

AYith many a benedicite; 30 

One at the rippling surge grew pale, 

And would for terror pray. 
Then shrieked because the sea-dog nigh 
His round black head and sparkling eye 

Reared o'er the foaming spray; 
And one would still adjust her veil, 
Disordered by the summer gale. 
Perchance lest some more worldly eye 
Her dedicated charms might spy. 
Perchance because such action graced 40 
Her fair-turned arm and slender waist. 
Light was each simple bosom there. 
Save two, who ill might pleasure share, — 
The Abbess and the Novice Clare. 



Ill 
The Abbess was of noble blood, 
But early took the veil and hood. 
Ere upon life she cast a look. 
Or knew the world that she forsook. 
Fair too she was, and kind had been 
As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 50 

For her a timid lover sigh. 
Nor knew the influence of her eye. 
Love to her ear was but a name. 
Combined with vanity and shame; 
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 
Bounded within the cloister wall; 
The deadliest sin her mind could reach 
Was of monastic rule the breach. 
And her ambition's highest aim 
To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. 60 

For this she gave her ample dower 
To raise the convent's eastern tower; 
For this, with carving rare and quaint, 
She decked the chapel of the saint. 
And gave the relic-shrine of cost. 
With ivory and gems embossed. 
The poor her convent's bounty blest. 
The pilgrim in its halls found rest. 



IV 



Black was her garb, her rigid rule 
Reformed on Benedictine school; 



70 



CANTO SECOND: THE CONVENT 



lOI 



Her cheek was pale, her form was spare; 
Vigils and penitence austere 
Had early quenched the light of youth: 
But gentle was the dame, in sooth; 
Though, vain of her religious sway, 
She loved to see her maids obey. 
Yet nothing stern was she in cell. 
And the nuns loved their Abbess well. 
Sad was this voyage to the dame; 
Summoned to Lindisfarne, she came, 8 
There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old 
And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold 
A chapter of Saint Benedict, 
For inquisition stern and strict 
On two apostates from the faith, 
And, if need were, to doom to death. 



Nought say I here of Sister Clare, 
Save this, that she was young and fair; 
As yet a novice unprofessed. 
Lovely and gentle, but distressed. 90 

She was betrothed to one now dead, 
Or worse, who had dishonored fled. 
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand 
To one who loved her for her land; 
Herself, almost heart-broken now. 
Was bent to take the vestal vow, 
And shroud within Saint Hilda's gloom 
Her blasted hopes and withered bloom. 

VI 

She sate upon the galley's prow. 

And seemed to mark the waves below; 100 

Nay, seemed, so fixed her look and eye, 

To count them as they glided by. 

She saw them not — 't was seeming all — 

Far other scene her thoughts recall, — 

A sun-scorched desert, waste and bare. 

Nor waves nor breezes murmured there ; 

There saw she where some careless hand 

O'er a dead corpse had heaped the sand. 

To hide it till the jackals come 

To tear it from the scanty tomb. — 1 10 

See what a woful look was given, 

As she raised up her eyes to heaven ! 

VII 

Lovely, and gentle, and distressed — 
These charms might tame the fiercest 

breast: 
Harpers have sung and poets told 
That he, in fury uncontrolled. 
The shaggy monarch of the wood. 
Before a virgin, fair and good, 



Hath pacified his savage mood. 

But passions in the human frame 120 

Oft put the lion's rage to shame ; 

And jealousy, by dark intrigue, 

With sordid avarice in league. 

Had practised with their bowl and knife 

Against the mourner's harmless life. 

This crime was charged 'gainst those who 

lay 
Prisoned in Cuthbert's islet gray. 

VIII 

And now the vessel skirts the strand 
Of mountainous Northumberland; 
Towns, towers, and halls successive rise, 130 
And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, 
And Tynemouth's priory and bay; 
They marked amid her trees the hall 
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval; 
They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods 
Rush to the sea through sounding woods ; 
They passed the tower of Widderington, 
Mother of many a valiant son; 
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 140 

To the good saint who owned the cell; 
Then did the Alne attention claim, 
And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name ; 
And next they crossed themselves to hear 
The whitening breakers sound so near. 
Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar 
On Dunstanborough's caverned shore; 
Thy tower, proud Bamborough, marked 

they there. 
King Ida's castle, huge and square, 
From its tall rock look grimly down, 150 
And on the swelling ocean frown ; 
Then from the coast they bore away, 
And reached the Holy Island's bay. 

IX 

The tide did now its flood-mark gain. 

And girdled in the Saint's domain; 

For, with the flow and ebb, its style 

Varies from continent to isle: 

Dry shod, o'er sands, twice every day 

The pilgrims to the shrine find way; 

Twice every day the waves eft'ace 16c 

Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. 

As to the port the galley flew. 

Higher and higher rose to view 

The castle with its battled walls. 

The ancient monastery's halls, 

A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, 

Placed on the margin of the isle. 



102 



MARMION 



In Saxon strength that abbey frowned, 
With massive arches broad and round, 
That rose alternate, row and row, 170 
On ponderous columns, short and low, 

Built ere the art was known. 
By pointed aisle and shafted stalk 
The arcades of an alleyed walk 
To emulate in stone. 
On the deep walls the heathen Dane 
Had poured his impious rage in vain; 
And needful was such strength to these. 
Exposed to the tempestuous seas. 
Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, 180 
Open to rovers fierce as they, 
Which could twelve hundred years with- 
stand 
Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand. 
Not but that portions of the pile, 
Rebuilded in a later style. 
Showed where the spoiler's hand had been; 
Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen 
Had worn the pillar's carving quaint. 
And mouldered in his niche the saint, 
And rounded with consuming power 190 
The pointed angles of each tower; 
Yet still entire the abbey stood. 
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. 

XI 

Soon as they neared his turrets strong. 
The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song. 
And with the sea-wave and the wind 
Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, 

And made harmonious close; 
Then, answering from the sandy shore. 
Half-drowned amid the breakers' roar, 200 

According chorus rose: 
Down to the haven of the Isle 
The monks and nuns in order file 

From Cuthbert's cloisters grim; 
Banner, and cross, and relics there. 
To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bare; 
And, as they caught the sounds on air. 

They echoed back the hymn. 
The islanders in joyous mood 
Rushed emulously through the flood 210 

To hale the bark to land; 
Conspicuous by her veil and hood. 
Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, 

And blessed them with her hand. 

XII 

Suppose we now the welcome said. 
Suppose the convent banquet made: 



All through the holy dome, 
Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, 
Wherever vestal maid might pry. 
Nor risk to meet unhallowed eye, 220 

The stranger sisters roam; 
Till fell the evening damp with dew, 
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, 
For there even summer night is chill. 
Then, having strayed and gazed their fill. 

They closed around the fire; 
And all, in turn, essayed to paint 
The rival merits of their saint, 

A theme that ne'er can tire 
A holy maid, for be it known 230 

That their saint's honor is their own. 

XIII 

Then Whitby's nuns exulting told 
How to their house three barons bold 

Must menial service do, 
While horns blow out a note of shame. 
And monks cry, * Fie upon your name ! 
In wrath, for loss of sylvan game, 

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew.' — 
* This, on Ascension-day, each year 
While laboring on our harbor-pier, 240 

Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear.' — 
They told how in their convent-cell 
A Saxon princess once did dwell, 

The lovely Edelfled; 
And how, of thousand snakes, each one 
Was changed into a coil of stone 

When holy Hilda prayed; 
Themselves, within their holy bound, 
Their stony folds had often found. 
They told how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 250 
As over Whitby's towers they sail. 
And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, 
They do their homage to the saint. 

XIV 

Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail 
To vie with these in holy tale; 
His body's resting-place, of old. 
How oft their patron changed, they told ; 
How, when the rude Dane burned their pile, 
The monks fled forth from Holy Isle; 259 
O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 
From sea to sea, from shore to shore. 
Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they 
bore. 
They rested them in fair Melrose; 

But though, alive, he loved it well, 
Not there his relics might repose; 
For, wondrous tale to tell ! 



CANTO SECOND: THE CONVENT 



103 



In his stone coffin forth he rides, 

A ponderous bark for river tides, 

Yet light as gossamer it glides 

Downward to Tilmouth cell. 270 

Nor long was his abiding there, 
For southward did the saint repair; 
Chester-le-Street and Ripon saw 
His holy corpse ere Wardilaw 

Hailed him with joy and fear; 
And, after many wanderings past, 
He chose his lordly seat at last 
Where his cathedral, huge and vast, 

Looks down upon the Wear. 
There, deep in Durham^s Gothic shade, 280 
His relics are in secret laid; 

But none may know the place. 
Save of his holiest servants three. 
Deep sworn to solemn secrecy. 

Who share that wondrous grace. 

XV 

Who may his miracles declare ? 

Even Scotland's dauntless king and heir — 

Although with them they led 
Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, 289 

And Loden's knights, all sheathed in mail. 
And the bold men of Teviotdale — 

Before his standard fled. 
'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, 
Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
And turned the Conqueror back again, 
When, with his Norman bowyer band, 
He came to waste Northumberland. 

XVI 

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn 
If on a rock, by Lindisfarne, 
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 300 
The sea-born beads that bear his name : 
Such tales had Whitby's fishers told. 
And said they might his shape behold. 

And hear his anvil sound ; 
A deadened clang, — a huge dim form, 
Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm 

And night were closing round. 
But this, as tale of idle fame. 
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. 

XVII 

While round the fire such legends go, 310 
Far different was the scene of woe 
Where, in a secret aisle beneath. 
Council was held of life and death. 
It was more dark and lone, that vault. 
Than the worst dungeon cell; 



Old Colwulf built it, for his fault 
In penitence to dwell. 
When he for cowl and beads laid down 
The Saxon battle-axe and crown. 
This den, which, chilling every sense 320 

Of feeling, hearing, sight. 
Was called the Vault of Penitence, 

Excluding air and light, 
Was by the prelate Sexhelm made 
A place of burial for such dead 
As, having died in mortal sin. 
Might not be laid the church within. 
'T was now a place of punishment; 
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent 

As reached the upper air, 330 

The hearers blessed themselves, and said 
The spirits of the sinful dead 

Bemoaned their torments there. 

XVIII 

But though, in the monastic pile, 
Did of this penitential aisle 

Some vague tradition go. 
Few only, save the Abbot, knew 
Where the place lay, and still more few 
Were those who had from him the clew 

To that dread vault to go. 340 

Victim and executioner 
Were blindfold when transported there. 
In low dark rounds the arches hung. 
From the rude rock the side- walls sprung; 
The gravestones, rudely sculptured o'er. 
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, 
Were all the pavement of the floor; 
The mildew-drops fell one by one. 
With tinkling plash, upon the stone. 
A cresset, in an iron chain, 350 

Which served to light this drear domain. 
With damp and darkness seemed to strive, 
As if it scarce might keep alive; 
And yet it dimly served to show 
The awful conclave met below. 

XIX 

There, met to doom in secrecy. 

Were placed the heads of convents three. 

All servants of Saint Benedict, 

The statutes of whose order strict 

On iron table lay; 360 

In long black dress, on seats of stone. 
Behind were these three judges shown 

By the pale cresset's ray. 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda's there 
Sat for a space with visage bare, 



I04 



MARMION 



Until, to hide her bosom's swell, 
And tear-drops that for pity fell, 

She closely drew her veil; 
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess, 
By her proud mien and flowing dress, 370 
Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, 

And she with awe looks pale ; 
And he, that ancient man, whose sight 
Has long been quenched by age's night, 
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone 
Nor ruth nor mercy's trace is shown, 

Whose look is hard and stern, — 
Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style. 
For sanctity called through the isle 

The Saint of Lindisfarne. 380 

XX 

Before them stood a guilty pair; 
But, though an equal fate they share. 
Yet one alone deserves our care. 
Her sex a page's dress belied; 
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 
Obscured her charms, but could not hide. 

Her cap down o'er her face she drew; 
And, on her doublet breast. 

She tried to hide the badge of blue, 
Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 390 

But, at the prioress' command, 
A monk undid the silken band 

That tied her tresses fair, 
And raised the bonnet from her head, 
And down her slender form they spread 

In ringlets rich and rare. 
Constance de Beverley they know, 
Sister professed of Fontevraud, 
Whom the Church numbered with the 

dead. 
For broken vows and convent fled. 400 

XXI 

When thus her face was given to view, — 
Although so pallid was her hue, 
It did a ghastly contrast bear 
To those bright ringlets glistering fair, — 
Her look composed, and steady eye, 
Bespoke a matchless constancy; 
And there she stood so calm and pale 
That, but her breathing did not fail, 
And motion slight of eye and head, 
And of her bosom, warranted 410 

That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, 
You might have thought a form of wax, 
Wrought to the very life, was there; 
So still she was, so pale, so fair. 



XXII 

Her comrade was a sordid soul. 

Such as does murder for a meed; 
Who, but of fear, knows no control. 
Because his conscience, seared and foul, 

Feels not the import of his deed; 
One whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 420 
Beyond his own more brute desires. 
Such tools the Tempter ever needs 
To do the savagest of deeds; 
For them no visioned terrors daunt. 
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt; 
One fear with them, of all most base, 
The fear of death, alone finds place. 
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, 
And shamed not loud to moan and howl. 
His body on the floor to dash, 430 

Ajid crouch, like hound beneath the 

lash ; 
While his mute partner, standing near, 
Waited her doom without a tear. 

XXIII 
Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, 
Well might her paleness terror speak ! 
For there were seen in that dark wall 
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall; — 
Who enters at such grisly door 
Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. 
In each a slender meal was laid, 440 

Of roots, of water, and of bread; 
By each, in Benedictine dress, 
Two haggard monks stood motionless. 
Who, holding high a blazing torch, 
Showed the grim entrance of the porch; 
Reflecting back the smoky beam, 
The dark-red walls and arches gleam. 
Hewn stones and cement were displayed, 
And building tools in order laid. 

XXIV 

These executioners were chose 450 

As men who were with mankind foes, 
And, with despite and envy fired. 
Into the cloister had retired. 

Or who, in desperate doubt of grace. 
Strove by deep penance to efface 

Of some foul crime the stain; 
For, as the vassals of her will, 
Such men the Church selected still 
As either joyed in doing ill, 

Or thought more grace to gain 460 

If in her cause they wrestled down 
Feelings their nature strove to own. 



CANTO SECOND: THE CONVENT 



loS 



By strange device were they brought 

there, 
They knew not how, and knew not where. 



XXV 

And now that blind old abbot rose, 

To speak the Chapter's doom 
On those the wall was to enclose 

Alive within the tomb, 
But stopped because that woful maid. 
Gathering her powers, to speak essayed; 470 
Twice she essayed, and twice in vain. 
Her accents might no utterance gain; 
Nought but imperfect murmurs slip 
From her convulsed and quivering lip: 
'Twixt each attempt all was so still. 
You seemed to hear a distant rill — 

'T was ocean's swells and falls ; 
For though this vault of sin and fear 
Was to the sounding surge so near, 479 
A tempest there you scarce could hear. 
So massive were the walls. 

XXVI 

At length, an effort sent apart 
The blood that curdled to her heart. 

And light came to her eye, 
And color dawned upon her cheek, 
A hectic and a fluttered streak, 
Like that left on the Cheviot peak 

By Autumn's stormy sky; 
And when her silence broke at length. 
Still as she spoke she gathered strength, 

And armed herself to bear. 491 

It was a fearful sight to see 
Such high resolve and constancy 

In form so soft and fair. 

XXVII 

* I speak not to implore your grace, 
Well know I for one minute's space 

Successless might I sue : 
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain; 
For if a death of lingering pain 
To cleanse my sins be penance vain, 500 

Vain are your masses too. — 
I listened to a traitor's tale, 
I left the convent and the veil; 
For three long years I bowed my pride, 
A horse-boy in his train to ride; 
And well my folly's meed ho gave. 
Who forfeited, to be his lave. 
All here, and all beyond the grave. 
He saw young Clara's face more fair, 



He knew her of broad lands the heir, 510 
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore. 
And Constance was beloved no more. 
'T is an old tale, and often told; 

But did my fate and wish agree, 
Ne'er had been read, in story old. 
Of maiden true betrayed for gold. 
That loved, or was avenged, like me ! 

XXVIII 

* The king approved his favorite's aim ; 
In vain a rival barred his claim, 

Whose fate with Clare's was plight, 520 
For he attaints that rival's fame 
With treason's charge — and on they came 
In mortal lists to fight. 
Their oaths are said, 
Their prayers are prayed, 
Their lances in the rest are laid. 
They meet in mortal shock; 
And hark ! the throng, with thundering 

cry, 
Shout " Marmion, Marmion ! to the sky, 

De Wilton to the block ! " 530 

Say, ye who preach Heaven shall decide 
When in the lists two champions ride, 

Say, was Heaven's justice here ? 
When, loyal in his love and faith, 
Wilton found overthrow or death 

Beneath a traitor's spear ? 
How false the charge, how true he fell. 
This guilty packet best can tell.' 
Then drew a packet from her breast, 
Paused, gathered voice, and spoke the 
rest. 540 

XXIX 

* Still was false Marmion's bridal stayed ; 
To Whitby's convent fled the maid. 

The hjited match to shun. 
'* Ho ■ shifts she thus ? " King Henry 

cried, 
" ^' r Marmion, she shall be thy bride, 

If she were sworn a nun." 
One way remained — the king's command 
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land; 
I lingered here, and rescue planned 

For Clara and for me: 55c 

This caitiff monk for gold did swear 
He would to Whitby's slirine repair. 
And by his drugs my rival fair 

A saint in heaven shoukl be ; 
But ill the dastard kept his oath, 
Whose cowardice hath undone us both. 



io6 



MARMION 



XXX 

* And now my tongue the secret tells, 
Not that remorse my bosom swells, 
But to assure my soul that none 

Shall ever wed with Marmion. 560 

Had fortune my last hope betrayed, 

This packet, to the king conveyed. 

Had given him to the headsman's stroke. 

Although my heart that instant broke. — 

Now, men of death, work forth your will. 

For I can suffer, and be still; 

And come he slow, or come he fast, 

It is but Death who comes at last. 

XXXI 

* Yet dread me from my living tomb, 

Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome ! 570 

If Marmion's late remorse should wake, 
Full soon such vengeance will he take 
That you shall wish the fiery Dane 
Had rather been your guest again. 
Behind, a darker hour ascends ! 
The altars quake, the crosier bends, 
The ire of a despotic king 
Rides forth upon destruction's wing; 
Then shall these vaults, so strong and 

deep, 
Burst open to the sea- winds' sweep; 580 
Some traveller then shall find my bones 
Whitening amid disjointed stones. 
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty. 
Marvel such relics here should be.' 

XXXII 

Fixed was her look and stern her air: 
Back from her shoulders streamed her 

hair; 
The locks that wont her brow to shade 
Stared up erectly irom her head; 
Her figure seemed to rise more high; 
Her voice despair's wild energy 590 

Had given a tone of prophecy. 
Appalled the astonished conclave ;:.te; 
With stupid eyes, the men of fate 
Gazed on the light inspired form. 
And listened for the avenging storm ; 
The judges felt the victim's dread; 
No hand was moved, no word was said. 

Till thus the abbot's doom was given. 
Raising his sightless balls to heaven: 
'Sister, let thy sorrows cease; 600 

Sinful Ijrother, part in peace ! ' 

From that dire dungeon, place of doom. 

Of execution too, and tomb. 
Paced forth the judges three; 



Sorrow it were and shame to tell 
The butcher-work that there befell. 
When they had glided from the cell 
Of sin and misery. 

XXXIII 

An hundred winding steps convey 
That conclave to the upper day; 610 

But ere they breathed the fresher air 
They heard the shriekings of despair, 

And many a stifled groan. 
With speed their upward way they take, — 
Such speed as age and fear can make, — 
And crossed themselves for terror's sake. 

As hurrying, tottering on, 
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone 
They seemed to hear a dying groan, 
And bade the passing knell to toll 620 

For welfare of a parting soul. 
Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, 
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung; 
To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled. 
His beads the wakeful hermit told; 
The Bamborough peasant raised his head. 
But slept ere half a prayer he said; 
So far was heard the mighty knell. 
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 630 
Listed before, aside, behind, 
Then couched him down beside the hind. 
And quaked among the mountain fern, 
To hear that sound so dull and stern. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
THIRD 

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ. 

Ashestiel^ Ettrick Forest 

Like April morning clouds, that pass 

With varying shadow o'er the grass. 

And imitate on field and furrow 

Life's checkered scene of joy and sorrow; 

Like streamlet of the mountain north, 

Now in a torrent racing forth. 

Now winding slow its silver train. 

And almost slumbering on the plain; 

Like bi-ozes of the autumn day. 

Whose V Ice inconstant dies away, 10 

And ever swells again as fast 

When the ear deems its murmur past; 

Thus various, iii romantic theme 

Flits, winds, or : uks, a morning dream. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD 



107 



Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 
Of Light and Shade's inconstant race; 
Pleased, views the rivulet afar, 
Weaving its maze irregular; 
And pleased, we listen as the breeze 
Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn 
trees: 20 

Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, 
Flow on, flow unconfined, my tale ! 

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell 
I love the license all too well. 
In sounds now lowly, and now strong, 
To raise the desultory song ? 
Oft, when mid such capricious chime 
Some transient fit of loftier rhyme 
To thy kind judgment seemed excuse 
For many an error of the muse, 30 

Oft hast thou said, * If, still misspent, 
Thine hours to poetry are lent. 
Go, and to tame thy wandering course, 
QuafP from the fountain at the source; 
Approach those masters o'er whose tomb 
Immortal laurels ever bloom: 
Instructive of the feebler bard. 
Still from the grave their voice is heard; 
From them, and from the paths they 

showed. 
Choose honored guide and practised 

road; 40 

Nor ramble on through brake and maze. 
With harpers rude of barbarous days. 

* Or deem'st thou not our later time 
Yields topic meet for classic rhyme ? 
Hast thou no elegiac verse 
For Brunswick's venerable hearse ? 
What ! not a line, a tear, a sigh, 
When valor bleeds for liberty ? — 
Oh, hero of that glorious time. 
When, with unrivalled light sublime, — 50 
Though martial Austria, and though all 
The might of Russia, and the Gaul, 
Though banded Europe stood her foes — 
The star of Brandenburg arose ! 
Thou couldst not live to see her beam 
Forever quenched in Jena's stream. 
Lamented chief ! — it was not given 
To thee to change the doom of Heaven, 
And crush that dragon in its birth, 
Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 60 

Lamented chief ! — not thine the power 
To save in that presumptuous hour 
When Prussia hurried to the field, 
And snatched the spear, but left the shield ! 



Valor and skill 't was thine to try. 

And, tried in vain, 't was thine to die. 

Ill had it seemed thy silver hair 

The last, the bitterest pang to share. 

For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, 

And birthrights to usurpers given; 70 

Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, 

And witness woes thou couldst not heal ! 

On thee relenting Heaven bestows 

For honored life an honored close; 

And when revolves, in time's sure change, 

The hour of Germany's revenge, 

When, breathing fury for her sake. 

Some new Arminius shall awake, 

Her champion, ere he strike, shall come 

To whet his sword on Brunswick's tomb. 

' Or of the Red-Cross hero teach, 81 

Dauntless in dungeon as on breach. 
Alike to him the sea, the. shore. 
The brand, the bridle, or the oar: 
Alike to him the war that calls 
Its votaries to the shattered walls 
Which the grim Turk, besmeared with 

blood. 
Against the Invincible made good; 
Or that whose thundering voice could wake 
The silence of the polar lake, 90 

When stubborn Russ and mettled Swede 
On the warped wave their death-game 

played; 
Or that where Vengeance and Affright 
Howled round the father of the fight. 
Who snatched on Alexandria's sand 
The conqueror's wreath with dying hand. 

* Or if to touch such chord be thine, 
Restore the ancient tragic line. 
And emulate the notes that rung 
From the wild harp which silent hung 100 
By silver Avon's holy shore 
Till twice an h^uidred years rolled o'er; 
When she, the bold Enchantress, came. 
With fearless hand and heart on flame, 
From the pale willow snatched the treasure. 
And swept it with a kindred measure, 
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, 
Awakening at the inspired strain, 
Deemed their own Shakespeare lived 
again.' no 

Thy friendship thus thy judgment 
wronging 
With praises not to me belonging. 



io8 



MARMION 



In task more meet for mightiest powers 
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. 
But say, my Erskine, hast thou weighed 
That secret power by all obeyed, 
Which warps not less the passive mind, 
Its source concealed or undefined; 
Whether an impulse, that has birth 
Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 120 

One with our feelings and our powers, 
And rather part of us than ours ; 
Or whether fitlier termed the sway 
Of habit, formed in early day ? 
Howe'er derived, its force confessed 
Rules with despotic sway the breast, 
And drags us on by viewless chain, 
While taste and reason plead in vain. 
Look east, and ask the Belgian why, 
Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, 130 

He seeks not eager to inhale 
The freshness of the mountain gale, 
Content to rear his whitened wall 
Beside the dank and dull canal ? 
He '11 say, from youth he loved to see 
The white sail gliding by the tree. 
Or see yon weather-beaten hind, 
Whose sluggish herds before him wind. 
Whose tattered plaid and rugged cheek 
His northern clime and kindred speak; 140 
Through England's laughing meads he 

goes, 
And England's wealth around him flows; 
Ask if it would content him well. 
At ease in those gay plains to dwell. 
Where hedge - rows spread a verdant 

screen. 
And spires and forests intervene. 
And the neat cottage peeps between ? 
No ! not for these will he exchange 
His dark Lochaber's boundless range, 
Not for fair Devon's meads forsake 150 

Ben Nevis gray and Garry's lake. 

Thus while I ape the measure wild 
Of tales that charmed me yet a child, 
Rude though they be, still with the chime 
Return the thoug-hts of early time; 
And feelings, roused in life's first day, 
Glow in the line and prompt the lay. 
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower. 
Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour. 
Though no broad river swept along, 160 
To claim, perchance, heroic song. 
Though sighed no groves in summer gale. 
To prompt of love a softer tale. 
Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed 



Claimed homage from a shepherd's reed. 
Yet was poetic impulse given 
By the green hill and clear blue heaven. 
It was a barren scene and wild. 
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled. 
But ever and anon between 170 

Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; 
And well the lonely infant knew 
Recesses where the wall-flower grew, 
And honeysuckle loved to crawl 
Up the low crag and ruined wall. 
I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade 
The sun in all its round surveyed; 
And still I thought that shattered tower 
The mightiest work of human power. 
And marvelled as the aged hind 180 

With some strange tale bewitched my 

mind 
Of forayers, who with headlong force 
Down from that strength had spurred their 

horse, 
Their southern rapine to renew 
Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 
And, home returning, filled the hall 
With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl. 
Methought that still with trump and clang 
The gateway's broken arches rang; 
Methought grim features, seamed with 
scars, 190 

Glared through the window's rusty bars. 
And ever, by the winter hearth. 
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth. 
Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms. 
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; 
Of patriot battles, won of old 
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; 
Of later fields of feud and fight. 
When, pouring from their Highland 

height. 
The Scottish clans in headlong sway 200 
Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 
While stretched at length upon the floor, 
Again I fought each combat o'er, 
Pebbles and shells, in order laid, 
The mimic ranks of war displayed; 
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, 
And still the scattered Southron fled be- 
fore. 

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace 
Anew each kind familiar face 
That brightened at our evening fire ! 210 
From the thatched mansion's gray-haired 

sire, 
Wise without learning, plain and good, 



CANTO THIRD: THE HOSTEL, OR INN 



109 



And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; 
Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen, 
Showed what in youth its glance had been; 
Whose doom discording neighbors sought, 
Content with equity unbought; 
To him the venerable priest. 
Our frequent and familiar guest, 219 

Whose life and manners well could paint 
Alike the student and the saint, 
Alas ! whose speech too oft I broke 
With gambol rude and timeless joke: 
For I was wayward, bold, and wild, 
A self-willed imp, a grandame's child, 
But half a plague, and half a jest, 
Was still endured, beloved, caressed. 

From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask 
The classic poet's well-conned task ? 
Nay, Erskine, nay — on the wild hill 230 
Let the wild heath-bell flourish still; 
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine. 
But freely let the woodbine twine, 
And leave untrimmed the eglantine: 
Nay, my friend, nay — since oft thy praise 
Hath given fresh vigor to my lays. 
Since oft thy judgment could refine 
My flattened thought or cumbrous line, 
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend. 
And in the minstrel spare the friend. 240 
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale. 
Flow forth, flow unrestrained, my tale I 



CANTO THIRD 



THE HOSTEL, OR INN 



The livelong day Lord Marmion rode; 
The mountain path the Palmer showed 
By glen and streamlet winded still. 
Where stunted birches hid the rill. 
They might not choose the lowland road. 
For the Merse forayers were abroad, 
Who, tired with hate and thirst of prey, 
Had scarcely failed to bar their way; 
Oft on the trampling band from crown 
Of some tall cliff the deer looked down; 10 
On wing of jet from his repose 
In the deep heath the blackcock rose; 
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, 
Nor waited for the bending bow; 
And when the stony path began 
By which the naked i)eak they wan. 
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. 



The noon had long been passed before 
They gained the height of Lammermoor; 
Thence winding down the northern way, 2a 
Before them at the close of day 
Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay. 

II 

No summons calls them to the tower. 

To spend the hospitable hour. 

To Scotland's camp the lord was gone; 

His cautious dame, in bower alone, 

Dreaded her castle to unclose. 

So late, to unknown friends or foes. 
On through the hamlet as they paced, 
Before a porch whose front was graced, 
With bush and flagon trimly placed, 3 1 

Lord Marmion drew his rein: 
The village inn seemed large, though 

rude; 
Its cheerful fire and hearty food 
Might well relieve his train. 

Down from their seats the horsemen sprung, 

With jingling spurs the court-yard rung; 

They bind their horses to the stall, 

For forage, food, and firing call. 

And various clamor fills the Lall: 40 

Weighing the labor with the cost, 

Toils everywhere the bustling host. 

Ill 

Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze. 
Through the rude hostel might you gaze. 
Might see where in dark nook aloof 
The rafters of the sooty roof 

Bore wealth of winter cheer; 
Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store. 
And gammons of the tusky boar, 

And savory haunch of deer. 50 

The chimney arch projected wide; 
Above, around it, and beside. 

Were tools for housewives' hand; 
Nor wanted, in that martial day, 
The implements of Scottish fray, 

The buckler, lance, and brand. 
Beneath its shade, the place of state, 
On oaken settle Marmion sate, 
And viewed aronnd the blazing hearth 
His followers mix in noisy mirth ; 60 

Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, 
From ancient vessels ranged aside 
Full actively their host supplied. 

IV 
Theirs was the glee of martial breast, 
And laughter theirs at little jest; 



no 



MARMION 



And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid, 
And mingle in the mirth they made; 
For though, with men of high degree, 
The proudest of the proud was he. 
Yet, trained in camps, he knew the art 70 
To win the soldier's hardy heart. 
They love a captain to obey, 
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; 
With open hand and brow as free, 
Lover of wine and minstrelsy; 
Ever the first to scale a tower. 
As venturous in a lady's bower: — 
Such buxom chief shall lead his host 
From India's fires to Zembla's frost. 



Resting upon his pilgrim stafp, 80 

Right opposite the Palmer stood, 
His thin dark visage seen but half, 

Half hidden by his hood. 
Still fixed on Marmion was his look, 
Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 

Strove by a frown to quell; 
But not for that, though more than once 
Full met their stern encountering glance, 

The Palmer's visage fell. 

VI 

By fits less frequent from the crowd 90 
Was heard the burst of laughter loud; 
For still, as squire and archer stared 
On that dark face and matted beard. 

Their glee and game declined. 
All gazed at length in silence drear, 
Unbroke save when in comrade's ear 
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear. 

Thus whispered forth his mind: 

* Saint Mary ! saw'st thou e'er such sight ? 
How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 100 
Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light 

Glances beneath his cowl ! 
Full on our lord he sets his eye; 
For his best palfrey would not I 

Endure that sullen scowl.' 

VII 
But Marmion, as to chase the awe 
Which thus had quelled their hearts who 

saw 
The ever-varying firelight show 
That figure stern and face of woe, 

Now called upon a squire: no 

• Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay. 
To speed the lingering night away ? 

We slumber by the fire.' 



VIII 

* So please you,' thus the youth rejoined, 

* Our choicest minstrel 's left behind. 
Ill may we hope to please your ear. 
Accustomed Constant's strains to hear. 
The harp full deftly can he strike, 
And wake the lover's lute alike; 

To dear Saint Valentine no thrush lac 

Sings livelier from a springtide bush. 
No nightingale her lovelorn tune 
More sweetly warbles to the moon. 
Woe to the cause, whate'er it be. 
Detains from us his melody, 
Lavished on rocks and billows stern. 
Or duller monks of Lindisfarne. 
Now must I venture as I may. 
To sing his favorite roundelay.' 

IX 

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 13a 

The air he chose was wild and sad; 
Such have I heard in Scottish land 
Rise from the busy harvest band. 
When falls before the mountaineer 
On Lowland plains the ripened ear. 
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong. 
Now a wild chorus swells the song: 
Oft have I listened and stood still 
As it came softened up the hill. 
And deemed it the lament of men 140 

Who languished for their native glen. 
And thought how sad would be such sound 
On Susquehanna's swampy ground, 
Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake, 
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake. 
Where heart-sick exiles in the strain 
Recalled fair Scotland's hills again ! 



SONG 

Where shall the lover rest. 

Whom the fates sever 
From his true maiden's breast, 150 

Parted forever ? 
Where, through groves deep and high, 

Sounds the far billow. 
Where early violets die, 

Under the willow. 

CHORUS 

Eleu loro^ etc. Soft shall be his pillow. 

There, through the summer day, 
Cool streams are laving; 



CANTO THIRD: THE HOSTEL, OR INN 



III 



There, while the tempests sway, 
Scarce are boughs waving; 

There thy rest shalt thou take, 
Parted forever. 

Never again to wake. 
Never, O never ! 



i6o 



^leu lorOj etc. 



CHORUS 

Never, O never ! 

XI 



"Where shall the traitor rest, 

He the deceiver. 
Who could win maiden's breast, 

Ruin and leave her ? 
In the lost battle, 170 

Borne down by the flying. 
Where mingles war's rattle 

With groans of the dying. 

CHORUS 

Eleu loro, etc. There shall he be lying. 

Her wing shall the eagle flap 

O'er the false-hearted; 
His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 

Ere life be parted. 
Shame and dishonor sit 

By his grave ever; 180 

Blessing shall hallow it, — 

Never, O never ! 



Eleu loro, etc. 



CHORUS 

Never, O never ! 

XII 



190 



It ceased, the melancholy sound, 
And silence sunk on all around. 
The air was sad; but sadder still 

It fell on Marmion's ear. 
And plained as if disgrace and ill. 

And shameful death, were near. 
He drew his mantle past his face, 

Between it and the band. 
And rested with his head a space 

Reclining on his hand. 
His thouglits I scan not; but I ween 
That, could their import have been seen. 
The meanest groom in all the hall. 
That e'er tied courser to a stall, 
Would scarce have wished to be their prey, 
Foj Lutterward and Fontenaye. 

XITI 

High minds, of native pride and force, 200 
Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse I 



Fear for their scourge mean villains have, 
Thou art the torturer of the brave ! 
Yet fatal strength they boast to steel 
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel, 
Even while they writhe beneath the smart 
Of civil conflict in the heart. 
For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, 
And smiling to Fitz-Eustace said: 
* Is it not strange that, as ye sung, 210 

Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung, 
Such as in nunneries they toll 
For some departing sister's soul ? 

Say, what may this portend ? ' 
Then first the Palmer silence broke, — 
The livelong day he had not spoke, — 

* The death of a dear friend.' 

XIV 

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye 
Ne'er changed in worst extremity, 21- 

Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook 
Even from his king a haughty look, 
Whose accent of command controlled 
In camps the boldest of the bold — 
Thought, look, and utterance failed him 

now, 
Fallen was his glance and flushed his brow: 

For either in the tone, 
Or something in the Palmer's look, 
So full upon his conscience strook 

That answer he found none. 
Thus oft it haps that when within 230 

They shrink at sense of secret sin, 

A feather daunts the brave; 
A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, 
And proudest princes vail their eyes 

Before their meanest slave. 

XV 

Well might he falter ! — By his aid 
Was Constance Beverley betrayed. 
Not that he augured of the doom 
Which on the living closed the tomb: 
But, tired to hear the desperate maid 24c 
Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid. 
And wroth because in wild despair 
She practised on the life of Clare, 
Its fugitive the Church he gave, 
Though not a victim, but a slave, 
And deenuul restraint in convent strange 
Would hide her wrongs and her revenge. 
Himself, j)roud Henry's favorite peer, 
llckl Romish thunders idle fear; 
Secure his }>ardon lie might hoUl 250 

For some slight mulct of penance-gold. 
Thus judging, he gave secret way 



112 



MARMION 



When the stern priests surprised their prey. 
His train but deemed the favorite page 
Was left behind to spare his age; 
Or other if they deemed, none dared 
To mutter what he thought and heard: 
Woe to the vassal who durst pry 
Into Lord Marmion's privacy ! 

XVI 

His conscience slept — he deemed her well, 
And safe secured in distant cell; 261 

But, wakened by her favorite lay, 
And that strange Palmer's boding say 
That fell so ominous and drear 
Full on the object of his fear. 
To aid remorse's venomed throes, 
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose ; 
And Constance, late betrayed and scorned, 
All lovely on his soul retm'ued; 
Lovely as when at treacherous call 270 

She left her convent's peaceful wall, 
Crimsoned with shame, with terror mute, 
Dreading alike escape, pursuit. 
Till love, victorious o'er alarms, 
Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 

X\'II 

* Alas ! ' he thought, * how changed that 

mien ! 
How changed these timid looks have been. 
Since years of guilt and of disguise 
Have steeled her brow and armed her eyes ! 
No more of virgin terror speaks 2S0 

The blood that mantles in her cheeks; 
Fierce and unfeminine are there, 
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair; 
And I the cause — for whom were given 
Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven ! — 
Would,' thought he, as the picture grows, 

* I on its stalk had left the rose ! 

Oh, why should man's success remove 
The very charms that wake his love ? — 
Her convent's peaceful solitude 290 

Is now a prison harsh and rude; 
And, pent within the narrow cell, 
How will her spirit chafe and swell ! 
How brook the stern monastic laws ! 
The penance how — and I the cause ! — 
Vigil and scourge — perchance even worse ! ' 
And twice he rose to cry, * To horse ! ' 
And twice his sovereign's mandate came. 
Like damp upon a kindling flame; 299 

And twice he thought, * Gave I not charge 
She should be safe, though not at large ? 



They durst not, for their island, shred 
One golden ringlet from her head.' 

XVIII 

While thus in Marmion's bosom strove 

Repentance and reviving love. 

Like whirlwinds whose contending sway 

I 've seeu Loch Vennachar obey. 

Their host the Palmer's speech had heard, 

And talkative took up the word: 

* Ay, reverend pilgrim, you w^ho stray 3 k 

From Scotland's simple land away. 
To visit realms afar, 

Full often learn the art to know 

Of future weal or future woe, 
By word, or sign, or star; 
Yet might a knight his fortune hear, 
If, knight-like, he despises fear, 
Xot far from hence ; — if fathers old 
Aright our hamlet legend told.' 
These broken words the menials move, — 5^20 
For marvels still the vulgar love, — 
And, Marmion giving license cold. 
His tale the host thus gladly told: — 

XIX 
THE host's tale 

' A clerk could tell what years have flown 

Since Alexander filled our throne, — 

Third monarch of that warlike name, — 

And eke the time when here he came 

To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord: 

A braver never drew a sword ; 

A wiser never, at the hour 330 

Of midnight, spoke the word of power; 

The same whom ancient records call 

The founder of the Goblin-Hall. 

I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay 

Gave you that cavern to survey. 

Of lofty roof and ample size. 

Beneath the castle deep it lies: 

To hew the living rock profound. 

The floor to pave, the arch to round. 

There never toiled a mortal arm, 34 

It all was wrought by word and charm; 

And I have heard my grandsire say 

That the wild clamor and affray 

Of those dread artisans of hell, 

Who labored under Hugo's spell, 

Sounded as loud as ocean's war 

Among the caverns of Dunbar. 

XX 

' The king Lord Gifford's castle sought, 
Deep laboring with uncertain thought. 



CANTO THIRD: THE HOSTEL, OR INN 



113 



Even then he mustered all his host, 350 

To meet upon the western coast; 
For Norse and Danish galleys plied 
Their oars within the Firth of Clyde. 
There floated Haco's banner trim 
Above Norweyan warriors grim. 
Savage of heart and large of limb, 
Threatening both continent and isle, 
Bute, Arran, Cunninghanie, and Kyle. 
Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground, 
Heard Alexander's bugle sound, 360 

And tarried not his garb to change, 
But, in his wizard habit strange, 
Came forth, — a quaint and fearftd sight: 
His mantle lined with fox-skins white; 
His high and wrinkled forehead bore 
A pointed cap, such as of yore 
Clerks say that Pharaoh's Magi wore; 
His shoes were marked with cross and spell, 
Upon his breast a pentacle; 
His zone of virgin parchment thin, 370 

Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin, 
Bore many a planetary sign. 
Combust, and retrograde, and trine; 
And in his hand he held prepared 
A naked sword without a guard. 

XXI 

* Dire dealings with the fiendish race 
Had marked strange lines upon his face; 
Vigil and fast had worn him grim. 

His eyesight dazzled seemed and dim, 

As one unused to upper day; 380 

Even his own menials with dismay 

Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire 

In this unwonted wild attire; 

Unwonted, for traditions run 

He seldom thus beheld the sun. 

" I know," he said, — his voice was hoarse. 

And broken seemed its hollow force, — 

" I know the cause, although untold. 

Why the king seeks his vassal's hold: 

Vainly from me my liege would know 390 

His kingdom's future weal or woe; 

But yet, if strong his arm and heart. 

His courage may do more than art. 

XXII 

* " Of middle air the demons proud, 
Who ride upon the racking cloud, 
Can read in fixed or wandering star 
The issue of events afar. 

But still their sullen aid withhold, 
Save when by mightier force controlled. 
Such late I summoned to my hall; 400 



And though so potent was the call 
That scarce the deepest nook of hell 
I deemed a refuge from the spell, 
Yet, obstinate in silence still. 
The haughty demon mocks my skill. 
But thou, — who little know'st thy might 
As born upon that blessed night 
When yawning graves and dying groan 
Proclaimed hell's empire overthrown, — 
With untaught valor shalt compel 410 

Response denied to magic spell." 
" Gramercy," quoth our monarch free, 
" Place him but front to front with me, 
And, by this good and honored brand, 
The gift of Cceur-de-Lion's hand, 
Soothly I swear that, tide what tide, 
The demon shall a bufPet bide." 
His bearing bold the wizard viewed, 
And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed: 
" There spoke the blood of Malcolm ! — 
mark : 420 

Forth pacing hence at midnight dark. 
The rampart seek whose circling crown 
Crests the ascent of yonder down: 
A southern entrance shalt thou find; 
There halt, and there thy bugle wind, 
And trust thine elfin foe to see 
In guise of thy worst enemy. 
Couch then thy lance and spur thy steed — 
Upon him ! and Saint George to speed ! 
If he go down, thou soon shalt know 430 
Whate'er these airy sprites can show; 
If thy heart fail thee in the strife, 
I am no warrant for thy life." 

XXIII 
* Soon as the midnight bell did ring, 
Alone and armed, forth rode the king 
To that old camp's deserted round. 
Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound 
Left hand the town, — the Pictish race 
The trench, long since, in blood did trace; 
The moor around is brown and bare, 440 
The space within is green and fair. 
The spot our village children know. 
For there the earliest wild-flowers grow ; 
But woe betide the wandering wight 
That treads its circle in the night ! 
The breadth across, a bowshot clear. 
Gives ample space for full career; 
Opposed to the four points of heaven. 
By four deep gaps are entrance given. 
Tlie southernmost our monarch passed, 450 
Halted, and blew a galhmt blast; 
And on the north, within tlio ring, 



114 



MARMION 



Appeared the form of England's king, 

Who then, a thousand leagues afar, 

In Palestine waged holy war: 

Yet arms like England's did he wield; 

Alike the leopards in the shield. 

Alike his Syrian courser's frame. 

The rider's length of limb the same. 

Long afterwards did Scotland know 460 

Fell Edward was her deadliest foe. 

XXIV 

* The vision made our monarch start, 
But soon he manned his noble heart, 
And in the first career they ran. 

The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man ; 
Yet did a splinter of his lance 
Through Alexander's visor glance, 
And razed the skin — a puny wound. 
The king, light leaping to the ground, 
With naked blade his phantom foe 470 

Compelled the future war to show. 
Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, 
Where still gigantic bones remain. 

Memorial of the Danish war; 
Himself he saw, amid the field. 
On high his brandished war-axe wield 
And strike proud Haco from his car, 
While all around the shadowy kings 
Denmark's grim ravens cowered their 

wings. 
'T is said that in that awful night 480 

Remoter visions met his sight. 
Foreshowing future conquest far. 
When our sons' sons wage Northern war; 
A royal city, tower and spire. 
Reddened the midnight sky with fire. 
And shouting crews her navy bore 
Triumphant to the victor shore. 
Such signs may learned clerks explain, 
They pass the wit of simple swain. 

XXV 

* The joyful king turned home again, 490 
Headed his host, and quelled the Dane; 
But yearly, when returned the night 

Of his strange combat with the sprite. 
His wound must bleed and smart; 

Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 

" Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay 
The penance of your start." 

Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave. 

King Alexander fills his grave, 

Our Lady give him rest ! 500 

Yet still the knightly spear and shield 



The Elfin Warrior doth wield 

Upon the brown hill's breast. 
And many a knight hath proved his chance 
In the charmed ring to break a lance. 

But all have foully sped; 
Save two, as legends tell, and they 
Were Wallace wight and Gilbert Hay. — 

Gentles, my tale is said.' 



509 



XXVI 



The quaighs were deep, the liquor strong. 
And on the tale the yeoman-throng 
Had made a comment sage and long. 

But Marmion gave a sign: 
And with their lord the squires retire, 
The rest around the hostel fire 

Their drowsy limbs recline ; 
For pillow, underneath each head 
The quiver and the targe were laid. 
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor. 
Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore; 520 
The dying flame, in fitful change. 
Threw on the group its shadows strange. 

XXVII 

Apart, and nestling in the hay 
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay; 
Scarce by the pale moonlight were seen 
The foldings of his mantle green: 
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream. 
Of sport by thicket, or by stream, 
Of hawk or hound, or ring or glove, 
Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 530 

A cautious tread his slumber broke. 
And, close beside him when he woke. 
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom, 
Stood a tall form with nodding plume ; 
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew. 
His master Marmion's voice he knew: 

XXVIII 

* Fitz-Eustace ! rise, — I cannot rest; 
Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast, 
And graver thoughts have chafed my mood ; 
The air must cool my feverish blood, 540 
And fain would I ride forth to see 
The scene of elfin chivalry. 
Arise, and saddle me my steed; 
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed 
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves; 
I would not that the prating knaves 
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale. 
That I could credit such a tale.' 
Then softly down the steps they slid. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH 



"5 



Eustace the stable door undid, 550 

And, darkling, Marmion's steed arrayed. 
While, whispering, thus the baron said: — 

K XXIX 

^^ * Didst never, good my youth, hear tell 
) That on the hour when I was born 

Saint George, who graced my sire's cha- 

pelle, 
Down from his steed of marble fell, 

A weary wight forlorn ? 
The flattering chaplains all agree 
The champion left his steed to me. 
I would, the omen's truth to show, 560 

That I could meet this elfin foe ! 
Blithe would I battle for the right 
To ask one question at the sprite. — 
Vain thought ! for elves, if elves there 

be. 
An empty race, by fount or sea 
To dashing waters dance and sing, 
Or round the green oak wheel their ring.' 
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, 
And from the hostel slowly rode. 

XXX 

Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad, 570 

And marked him pace the village road. 

And listened to his horse's tramp. 
Till, by the lessening sound, 

He judged that of the Pictish camp 
Lord Marmion sought the round. 
Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes. 
That one, so wary held and wise, — 
Of whom 't was said, he scarce received 
For gospel what the Church believed, — 

Should, stirred by idle tale, 580 

Ride forth in silence of the night. 
As hoping half to meet a sprite. 

Arrayed in plate and mail. 
For little did Fitz-Eustace know 
That passions in contending flow 

Unfix the strongest mind; 
Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee, 
We welcome fond credulity, 

Guide confident, though blind. 



XXXI 

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, 
But patient waited till he heard 
At distance, pricked to utmost speed, 
The foot-tramp of a flying steed 

Come townward rushing on; 
First, dead, as if on turf it trode, 
Then, clattering on the village road, - 



590 



In other pace than forth he yode, 

Returned Lord Marmion. 
Down hastily he sprung from selle, 
And in his haste wellnigh he fell ; 600 

To the squire's hand the rein he threw. 
And spoke no word as he withdrew: 
But yet the moonlight did betray 
The falcon-crest was soiled with clay; 
And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see. 
By stains upon the charger's knee 
And his left side, that on the moor 
He had not kept his footing sure. 
Long musing on these wondrous signs, 
At length to rest the squire reclines, 610 
Broken and short; for still between 
Would dreams of terror intervene: 
Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark 
The first notes of the morning lark. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
FOURTH 

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ. 

Ashestiely Ettrick Forest 

An ancient Minstrel sagely said, 

* Where is the life which late we led ? ' 

That motley clown in Arden wood. 

Whom humorous Jaques with envy viewed. 

Not even that clown could amplify 

On this trite text so long as I. 

Eleven years we now may tell 

Since we have known each other well, 

Since, riding side by side, our hand 

First drew the voluntary brand; 10 

And sure, through many a varied scene, 

Unkindness never came between. 

Away these winged years have flown, 

To join the mass of ages gone; 

And though deep marked, like all below, 

With checkered shades of joy and woe. 

Though thou o'er realms and seas hast 

ranged, 
Marked cities lost and empires changed. 
While here at home my narrower ken 
Somewhat of manners saw and men; 2c 
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears 
Fevered the progress of these years, 
Yet now, days, weeks, and months but 

seem 
The recollection of a dream. 
So still we glide down to the sea 
Of fathomless eternity. 



ii6 



MARMION 



Even now it scarcely seems a day 
Since first I tuned this idle lay; 
A task so often thrown aside, 
When leisure graver cares denied, 30 

That now November's dreary gale, 
Whose voice inspired my opening tale, 
That same November gale once more 
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. 
Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky, 
Once more our naked birches sigh, 
And Blackhouse heights and Ettrick Pen 
Have donned their wintry shrouds again, 
And mountain dark and flooded mead 
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 40 

Earlier than wont along the sky. 
Mixed with the rack, the snow mists fly ; 
The shepherd who, in summer sun, 
Had something of our envy won. 
As thou with pencil, I with pen. 
The features traced of hill and glen, — 
He who, outstretched the livelong day, 
At ease among the heath-flowers lay, 
Viewed the light clouds with vacant look. 
Or slumbered o'er his tattered book, 50 
Or idly busied him to guide 
His angle o'er the lessened tide, — 
At midnight now the snowy plain 
Finds sterner labor for the swain. 

When red hath set the beamless sun 
Through heavy vapors dank and dun, 
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm. 
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm 
Hurling the hail and sleeted rain 
Against the casement's tinkling pane ; 60 
The sounds that drive wild deer and fox 
To shelter in the brake and rocks 
Are warnings which the shepherd ask 
To dismal and to dangerous task. 
Oft he looks forth, ajid hopes, in vain. 
The blast may sink in mellowing rain; 
Till, dark above and white below. 
Decided drives the flaky snow, 
And forth the hardy swain must go. 
Long, with dejected look and whine, 70 

To leave the hearth his dogs repine; 
Whistling and cheering them to aid, 
Around his back he wreathes the plaid: 
His flock he gathers and he guides 
To open downs and mountain-sides, 
Where fiercest though the tempest blow. 
Least deeply lies the drift below. 
The blast that whistles o'er the fells 
Stiffens his locks to icicles; 
Oft he looks back while, streaming far, 80 



His cottage window seems a star, — 
Loses its feeble gleam, — and then 
Turns patient to the blast again. 
And, facing to the tempest's sweep. 
Drives through the gloom his lagging 

sheep. 
If fails his heart, if his limbs fail. 
Benumbing death is in the gale; 
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown. 
Close to the hut, no more his own, 
Close to the aid he sought in vain, 9c 

The morn may find the stiffened swain: 
The widow sees, at dawning pale, 
His orphans raise their feeble wail; 
And, close beside him in the snow, 
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 
Couches upon his master's breast. 
And licks his cheek to break his rest. 

Who envies now the shepherd's lot, 
His healthy fare, his rural cot. 
His summer couch by greenwood tree, 100 
His rustic kirn's loud revelry. 
His native hill-notes tuned on high 
To Marion of the blithesome eye. 
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, 
And all Arcadia's golden creed ? 

Changes not so with us, my Skene, 
Of human life the varying scene ? 
Our youthful summer oft we see 
Dance by on wings of game and glee. 
While the dark storm reserves its rage no 
Against the winter of our age; 
As he, the ancient chief of Troy, 
His manhood spent in peace and joy, 
But Grecian fires and loud alarms 
Called ancient Priam forth to arms. 
Then happy those, since each must drain 
His share of pleasure, share of pain, — 
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, 
To whom the mingled cup is given; 
Whose lenient sorrows find relief; 120 

Whose joys are chastened by their grief. 
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine. 
When thou of late wert doomed to twine — 
Just when thy bridal hour was by — 
The cypress with the myrtle tie. 
Just on thy bride her sire had smiled. 
And blessed the union of his child, 
When love must change its joyous cheer. 
And wipe affection's filial tear. 
Nor did the actions next his end 130 

Speak more the father than the friend: 
Scarce had lamented Forbes paid 



CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP 



117 



The tribute to his minstrel's shade, 

The tale of friendship scarce was told, 

Ere the narrator's heart was cold — 

Far may we search before we find 

A heart so manly and so kind ! 

But not around his honored urn 

Shall friends alone and kindred mourn; 

The thousand eyes his care had dried 140 

Pour at his name a bitter tide, 

And frequent falls the grateful dew 

For benefits the world ne'er knew. 

If mortal charity dare claim 

The Almighty's attributed name. 

Inscribe above his mouldering clay, 

* The widow's shield, the orphan's stay.' 
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem 
My verse intrudes on this sad theme, 

For sacred was the pen that wrote, 150 

* Thy father's friend forget thou not; ' 
And grateful title may I plead. 

For many a kindly word and deed. 
To bring my tribute to his grave : — 
'T is little — but 't is all I have. 

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain 
Recalls our summer walks again; 
When, doing nought, — and, to speak true. 
Not anxious to find aught to do, — 
The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 160 
While oft our talk its topic changed, 
And, desultory as our way. 
Ranged unconfined from grave to gay. 
Even when it flagged, as oft will chance, 
No effort made to break its trance. 
We could right pleasantly pursue 
Our sports in social silence too; 
Thou gravely laboring to portray 
The blighted oak's fantastic spray, 
I spelling o'er with much delight 170 

The legend of that antique knight, 
Tirante by name, ycleped the White. 
At cither's feet a trusty squire, 
Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire. 
Jealous each other's motions viewed, 
And scarce suppressed their ancient feud. 
The laverock whistled from the cloud; 
The stream was lively, but not loud; 
From the white thorn the May-flower shed 
Its dewy fragrance round our head: 180 

Not Ariel lived more merrily 
Under the blossomed bough than we. 

And blithesome nights, too, have been 
ours. 
When Winter stript the Summer's bowers. 



Careless we heard, what now I hear. 
The wild blast sighing deep and drear. 
When fires were bright and lamps beamed 

gay, 
And ladies tuned the lovely lay. 
And he was held a laggard soul 
Who shunned to quaff the sparkling 

bowl. 190 

Then he whose absence we deplore. 
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, 
The longer missed, bewailed the more. 
And thou, and I, and dear-loved Rae, 
And one whose name I may not say, — 
For not mimosa's tendei" tree 
Shrinks sooner from the touch than he, — 
In merry chorus well combined. 
With laughter drowned the whistling wind. 
Mirth was within, and Care without 200 
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. 
Not but amid the buxom scene 
Some grave discourse might intervene — 
Of the good horse that bore him best. 
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest; 
For, like mad Tom's, our chiefest care 
Was horse to ride and weapon wear. 
Such nights we've had; and, though the 

game 
Of manhood be more sober tame. 
And though the field-day or the drill 210 
Seem less important now, yet still 
Such may we hope to share again. 
The sprightly thought inspires my strain ! 
And mark how, like a horseman true, 
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. 



CANTO FOURTH 



THE CAMP 



Eustace, I said, did blithely mark 
The first notes of the merry lark. 
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew, 
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew, 
And with their light and lively call 
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. 

Whistling they came and free of heart, 
But soon their mood was changed; 

Complaint was heard on every part 
Of something disarranged. ic 

Some clamored loud for armor lost; 
Some brawled and wrangled with the host; 
* By Becket's bones,' cried one, * I fear 
That some false Scot has stolen my spear 1 ' 



ii8 



MARMION 



Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second 

squire, 
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire. 
Although the rated horseboy sware 
Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. 
While chafed the impatient squire like 

thunder. 
Old Hubert shouts in fear and wonder, — 20 

* Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all ! 
Bevis lies dying in his stall ; 

To Marmion who the plight dare tell 
Of the good steed he loves so well ? ' 
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw 
The charger panting on his straw ; 
Till one, who would seem wisest, cried, 

* What else but evil could betide, 

With that cursed Palmer for our guide ? 
Better we had through mire and bush 30 
Been lantern-led by Friar E-ush.' 



Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed, 

Nor wholly understood, 
His comrades' clamorous plaints sup- 
pressed ; 

He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 
Him, ere he issued forth, he sought, 
And found deep plunged in gloomy thought, 

And did his tale display 
Simply, as if he knew of nought 

To cause such disarray. 40 

Lord Marmion gave attention cold, 
Nor marvelled at the wonders told, — 
Passed them as accidents of course, 
And bade his clarions sound to horse. 



Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 
Had reckoned with their Scottish host ; 
And, as the charge he cast and paid, 

* 111 thou deserv'st thy hire,' he said ; 

* Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight ? 
Fairies have ridden him all the night, 50 

And left him in a foam ! 
I trust that soon a conjuring band. 
With English cross and blazing brand. 
Shall drive the devils from this land 

To their infernal home ; 
For in this haunted den, I trow. 
All night they trampled to and fro.' 
The laughing host looked on the hire : 

* Gramercy, gentle southern squire. 

And if thou com'st among the rest, 60 

With Scottish broadsword to be blest, 
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, 
Ani short the pang to undergo.' 



Here stayed their talk, for Marmion 
Gave now the signal to set on. 
The Palmer showing forth the way. 
They journeyed all the morning-day. 

IV 

The greensward way was smooth and good. 
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's 

wood ; 
A forest glade, which, varying still, 70 

Here gave a view of dale and hill. 
There narrower closed till overhead 
A vaulted screen the branches made. 

* A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said ; 

* Such as where errant-knights might see 
Adventures of high chivalry. 

Might meet some damsel flying fast, 
With hair unbound and looks aghast ; 
And smooth and level course were here. 
In her defence to break a spear. 80 

Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells ; 
And oft in such, the story tells, 
The damsel kind, from danger freed, 
Did grateful pay her champion's meed.' 
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind. 
Perchance to show his lore designed ; 

For Eustace much had pored 
Upon a huge romantic tome, 
In the hall- window of his home, 
Imprinted at the antique dome 90 

Of Caxton or de Worde. 
Therefore he spoke, — but spoke in vain. 
For Marmion answered nought again. 



Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill, 
In notes prolonged by wood and hill. 

Were heard to echo far ; 
Each ready archer grasped his bow. 
But by the flourish soon they know 

They breathed no point of war. 
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 100 

Lord Marmion's order speeds the band 

Some opener ground to gain ; 
And scarce a furlong had they rode. 
When thinner trees receding showed 

A little woodland plain. 
Just in that advantageous glade 
The halting troop a line had made. 
As forth from the opposing shade 

Issued a gallant train. 109 

VI 

First came the trumpets, at whose clang 

So late the forest echoes rang ; 

On prancing steeds they forward pressed, 



CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP 



119 



With scarlet mantle, azure vest; 
Each at his trump a banner wore, 
Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore: 
Heralds and pursuivants, by name 
Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came, 
In painted tabards, proudly showing 
Gules, argent, or, and azure glowing, 

Attendant on a king-at-arms, 120 

Whose hand the armorial truncheon held 
That feudal strife had often quelled 

When wildest its alarms. 

VII 

He was a man of middle age. 
In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 

As on king's errand come; 
But in the glances of his eye 
A penetrating, keen, and sly 

Expression found its home; 
The flash of that satiric rage 130 

Which, bursting on the early stage, 
Branded the vices of the age. 

And broke the keys of Rome. 
On milk-white palfrey forth he paced; 
His cap of maintenance was graced 

With the proud heron-plume. 
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast. 

Silk housings swept the ground, 
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest, 

Embroidered round and round. 140 

The double tressure might you see. 

First by Achaius borne. 
The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, 

And gallant unicorn. 
So bright the king's armorial coat 
That scarce the dazzled eye could note. 
In living colors blazoned brave, 
The Lion, which his title gave ; 
A train, which well beseemed his state, 
But all unarmed, around him wait. 150 

Still is thy name in high account, 
And still thy verse has charms, 

Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
Lord Lion King-at-arms ! 

VIII 

Down from his horse did Marmion spring 

Soon as he saw the Lion-King; 

For well the stately baron knew 

To him such courtesy was due 

Whom royal James himself liad crowned, 

And on his temples placed the round 160 

Of Scotland's ancient diadem, 
And wet his brow with hallowed wine, 
And on his finger given to shine 



The emblematic gem. 
Their mutual greetings duly made, 
The Lion thus his message said : — 

* Though Scotland's King hath deeply 

swore 
Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more, 
And strictly hath forbid resort 
From England to his royal court, 170 

Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name 
And honors much his warlike fame. 
My liege hath deemed it shame and lack 
Of courtesy to turn him back; 
And by his order I, your guide, 
Must lodging fit and fair provide 
Till finds King James meet time to see 
The flower of English chivalry.' 

IX 

Though inly chafed at this delay, 
Lord Marmion bears it as he may. 180 

The Palmer, his mysterious guide, 
Beholding thus his place supplied, 

Sought to take leave in vain; 
Strict was the Lion-King's command 
That none who rode in Marmion's band 

Should sever from the train. 

* England has here enow of spies 
In Lady Heron's witching eyes : ' 
To Marchmount thus apart he said. 

But fair pretext to Marmion made. 190 

The right-hand path they now decline. 
And trace against the stream the Tyne. 



At length up that wild dale they wind, 

Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank ; 
For there the Lion's care assigned 

A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. 
That castle rises on the steep 

Of the green vale of Tyne; 
And far beneath, where slow they creep 
From pool to eddy, dark and deep, 200 

Where alders moist and willows weep. 

You hear her streams repine. 
The towers in different ages rose, 
Their various architecture shows 

The builders' various hands; 
A mighty mass, that could oppose, 
When deadliest hatred fired its foes. 

The vengeful Douglas bands. 

XI 

Crichtoun ! though now thy miry court 
But pens the lazy steer and sheep, 21c 
Thy turrets rude and tottered keep 



120 



MARMION 



I 



Have been the minstrers loved resort. 
Oft have I traced, within thy fort, 

Of mouldering shields the mystic sense. 

Scutcheons of honor or pretence, 
Quartered in old armorial sort, 

Remains of rude magnificence. 
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced 

Thy lordly gallery fair, 
Nor yet the stony cord unbiaced 220 

Whose twisted ^ots, with roses laced, 

Adorn thy ruined stair. 
Still rises unimpaired below 
The court-yard's graceful portico; 
Above its cornice, row and row 
Of fair-hewn facets richly show 

Their pointed diamond form. 
Though there but houseless cattle go, 

To shield them from the storm. 
And, shuddering, still may we explore, 230 

AVhere oft wMlom were captives pent. 
The darkness of thy Massy More, 

Or, from thy g^rass-grown battlement, 
May trace in undulating line 
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 

xn 
Another aspect Crichtoun showed 
As through its portal Mannion rode; 

But yet 't was melancholy state 

Received him at the outer gate. 

For none were in the castle then 240 

But women, boys, or aged men. 

With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing 

dame 
To welcome noble Marmion came; 
Her son, a stripling twelve years old. 
Proffered the baron's rein to hold: 
For each man that could draw a sword 
Had marched that morning with their 

lord, 
Earl Adam Hepburn, — he who died 
On Flodden by his sovereign's side. 
Long may his lady look in vain ! 250 

She ne'er shall see his gallant train 
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun- 

Dean. 
'T was a brave race before the name 
Of hated Bothwell stained their fame. 

xin 
And here two days did Marmion rest. 

With every right that honor claims, 
Attended as the king's own guest; — 

Such the command of Royal James, 
Who marshalled then his land's array. 



Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 260 

Perchance he would not foeman's eye 
Upon his gathering host should pry, 
Till full prepared was every band 
To march against the English land. 
Here while they dwelt, did Ldndesay's wit 
Oft cheer the baron's moodier fit; 
And, in his turn, he knew to prize 
Lord Marmion's powerful mind and 

wise, — 
Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece, 
And policies of war and peace. 270 

XIV 

It chanced, as fell the second night. 
That on the battlements they walked. 

And by the -" - " * ' : - ; :ht 

Of varyi:. „ 
And, unawfii r, : .r L - :d 

Said Marmi :: : .:^/: .. : . . have spared 

In travell: _ - : .r, 
For that a n-r-ri .ri- from heaven 
In vain - V insel given 

Agai: ar: 2S0 

And. c- he told 

A tale ^•.„.c^- c-^. ■.■-.._-- '-i L.a 
In Scottish story have enrolled: — 

XV 

sm DAvm lindesay's talk 
' Of all the palaces so fair, 

Bnilt for the royal dwelling 
In Scotland, far beyond compare 

Linlithgow is excelling; 
And in its park, in jovial June, 
How sweet the merry linnet's tone. 

How blithe the blackbird's lay ! 290 

The wild buck bells from ferny brake. 
The coot dives mer^ on the lake, 
The saddest heart might pleasure take 

To see all nature gay. 
But June is to our sovereign dear 
The heaviest month in all the year; 
Too well his cause of grief you know, 
Jnne saw his father's overthrow. 
Woe to the traitors who could bring 
The princely boy against his king ! 30c 

Still in his conscience burns the sting. 
In offices as strict as Lent 
King James's June is ever spent 

XVI 

* When last this ruthful month was come, 
And in Linlithgow's holy dome 
The king, as wont, was praying; 



1 



CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP 



121 



While for his royal father's soul 
The chanters sung, the bells did toll, 

The bishop mass was saying — 
For now the year brought round again 310 
The day the luckless king was slain — 
In Catherine's aisle the monarch knelt, 
With sackcloth shirt and iron belt, 

And eyes with sorrow streaming; 
Around him in their stalls of state 
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate, 

Their banners o'er them beaming. 
I too was there, and, sooth to tell, 
Bedeafened with the jangling knell, 319 
Was watching where the sunbeams fell. 

Through the stained casement gleam- 
ing; 
But while I marked what next befell 

It seemed as I were dreaming. 
Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight. 
In azure gown, with cincture white ; 
His forehead bald, his head was bare, 
Down hung at length his yellow hair. — 
Now, mock me not when, good my lord, 
I pledge to you my knightly word 
That when I saw his placid grace, 330 

His simple majesty of face, 
His solemn bearing, and his pace 

So stately gliding on, — 
Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint 
So just an image of the saint 
Who propped the Virgin in her faint, 

The loved Apostle John ! 

XVII 
* He stepped before the monarch's chair. 
And stood with rustic plainness there. 

And little reverence made; 340 

Nor head, nor body, bowed, nor bent. 
But on the desk his arm he leant, 

And words like these he said. 
In a low voice, — but never tone 
So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and 

bone: — 
" My mother sent me from afar. 
Sir King, to warn thee not to war, — 

Woe waits on thine array; 
If war thou wilt, of woman fair, 
Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 350 
James Stuart, doubly warned, beware: 

God keep thee as He may ! " — 
The wondering monarch seemed to seek 

For answer, and found none; 
And when he raised his head to speak. 

The monitor was gone. 
The marshal and myself bad cast 



To stop him as he outward passed; 
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast, 

He vanished from our eyes, 360 

Like sunbeam on the billow cast, 

That glances but, and dies.' 

XVIII 

While Lindesay told his marvel strange 

The twilight was so pale, 
He marked not Marmion's color change 

While listening to the tale; 
But, after a suspended pause. 
The baron spoke: * Of Nature's laws 

So strong I held the force. 
That never superhuman cause 370 

Could e'er control their course. 
And, three days since, had judged your aim 
Was but to make your guest your game; 
But I have seen, since past the Tweed, 
What much has changed my sceptic creed, 
And made me credit aught.' — He stayed, 
And seemed to wish his words unsaid, 
But, by that strong emotion pressed 
Which prompts us to unload our breast 

Even when discovery 's pain, 380 

To Lindesay did at length unfold 
The tale his village host had told, 

At Gifford, to his train. 
Nought of the Palmer says he there, 
And nought of Constance or of Clare; 
The thoughts which broke his sleep he seems 
To mention but as feverish dreams. 

XIX 

* In vain,' said he, ' to rest I spread 

My burning limbs, and couched my head ; 

Fantastic thoughts returned, 390 

And, by their wild dominion led, 

My heart within me burned. 
So sore was the delirious goad, 
I took my steed and forth I rode. 
And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 
Soon reached the camp upon the wold. 
The southern entrance I passed through, 
And halted, and my bugle blew. 
Methought an answer met my ear, — 
Yet was the blast so low and drear, 40c 
So liollow, and so faintly blown, 
It might be echo of my own. 

XX 

* Thus jndging, for a little space 
I listened ere I left the place, 

But scarce could trust my eyes. 
Nor yet can think they serve me true, 



122 



MARMION 



When sudden in the rmg I view, 
In form distinct of shape and hue, 

A mounted champion rise. — 
I 've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day, 410 
In single fight and mixed affray, 
And ever, I myself may say. 

Have borne me as a knight; 
But when this unexpected foe 
Seemed starting from the gulf below, — 
I care not though the truth I show, — 

I trembled with affright; 
And as I placed in rest my spear. 
My hand so shook for very fear, 

I scarce could couch it right. 420 

XXI 

* Why need my tongue the issue tell ? 
We ran our course, — my charger fell; — 
What could he 'gainst the shock of hell ? 

I rolled upon the plain. 
High o'er my head with threatening hand 
The spectre shook his naked brand, — 

Yet did the worst remain: 
My dazzled eyes I upward cast, — 
Not opening hell itself could blast 

Their sight like what I saw ! 430 

Full on his face the moonbeam strook ! — 
A face could never be mistook ! 
I knew the stern vindictive look. 

And held my breath for awe. 
I saw the face of one who, fled 
To foreign climes, has long been dead, — 

I well believe the last; 
For ne'er from visor raised did stare 
A human warrior with a glare 

So grimly and so ghast. 440 

Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade ; 
But when to good Saint George I 

prayed, — 
The first time e'er I asked his aid, — 

He plunged it in the sheath, 
And, on his courser mounting light. 
He seemed to vanish from my sight: 
The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night 

Sunk down upon the heath. — 
'T were long to tell what cause I have 

To know his face that met me there, 450 
Called by his hatred from the grave 

To cumber upper air; 
Dead or alive, good cause had he 
To be my mortal enemy.' 

XXII 

Marvelled Sir David of the Mount; 
Then, learned in story, gan recount 



Such chance had happed of old. 
When once, near Norham, there did fight 
A spectre fell of fiendish might. 
In likeness of a Scottish knight, 460 

With Brian Bulmer bold. 
And trained him nigh to disallow 
The aid of his baptismal vow. 
* And such a phantom, too, 't is said. 
With Highland broadsword, targe, and 
plaid. 

And fingers red with gore. 
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade. 
Or where the sable pine-trees shade 
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, 

Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 470 

And yet, whate'er such legends say 
Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay, 

On mountain, moor, or plain. 
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, 
True son of chivalry should hold 

These midnight terrors vain; 
For seldom have such spirits power 
To harm, save in the evil hour 
When guilt we meditate within 
Or harbor unrepented sin.' — 480 

Lord Marmion turned him half aside, 
And twice to clear his voice he tried. 

Then pressed Sir David's hand, — 
But nought, at length, in answer said; 
And here their further converse stayed, 

Each ordering that his band 
Should bowne them with the rising day, 
To Scotland's camp to take their way, — 

Such was the king's command. 

XXIII 
Early they took Dun-Edin's road, 490 

And I could trace each step they trode; 
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone. 
Lies on the path to me unknown. 
Much might it boast of storied lore; 
But, passing such digression o'er. 
Suffice it that their route was laid 
Across the furzy hills of Braid. 
They passed the glen and scanty rill. 
And climbed the opposing bank, until 
They gained the top of Blackford Hill. 500 

XXIV 

Blackford ! on whose uncultured breast, 
Among the broom and thorn and whin, 

A truant-boy, I sought the nest. 

Or listed, as I lay at rest. 
While rose on breezes thin 

The murmur of the city crowd, 



CANTO FOURTH: THE CAMP 



123 



And, from his steeple jangling loud, 

Saint Giles's mingling din. 
Now, from the summit to the plain. 
Waves all the hill with yellow grain; 510 

And o'er the landscape as I look, 
Nought do I see unchanged remain, 

Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. 
To me they make a heavy moan 
Of early friendships past and gone. 

XXV 

But different far the change has been, 

Since Marmion from the crown 
Of Blackford saw that martial scene 

Upon the bent so brown: 
Thousand pavilions, white as snow, 520 

Spread all the Borough-moor below, 

Upland, and dale, and down. 
A thousand did I say ? I ween. 
Thousands on thousands there were seen. 
That checkered all the heath between 

The streamlet and the town. 
In crossing ranks extending far, 
Forming a camp irregular; 
Oft giving way where still there stood 
Some relics of the old oak wood, 530 

That darkly huge did intervene 
And tamed the glaring white with green: 
In these extended lines there lay 
A martial kingdom's vast array. 

XXVI 

For from Hebudes, dark with rain. 
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain. 
And from the southern Redswire edge 
To furthest Rosse's rocky ledge. 
From west to east, from south to north, 
Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 540 
Marmion might hear the mingled hum 
Of myriads up the mountain come, — 
The horses' tramp and tinkling clank, 
Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank, 

And charger's shrilling neigh, — 
And see the shifting lines advance. 
While frequent flashed from shield and 
lance 

The sun's reflected ray. 

XXVII 

Thin curling in the morning air, 
The wreaths of failing smoke declare 550 
To embers now the brands decayed, 
Where the night - watch their fires had 

made. 
They saw, slow rolling on the plain. 



Full many a baggage-cart and wain, 

And dire artillery's clumsy car. 

By sluggish oxen tugged to war; 

And there were Borthwick's Sisters Seven, 

And culverins which France had given. 

Ill-omened gift ! the guns remain 

The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 560 

XXVIII 

Nor marked they less where in the air 
A thousand streamers flaunted fair; 
Various in shape, device, and hue. 
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue, 
Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square. 
Scroll, pennon, pencil, bandrol, there 

O'er the pavilions flew. 
Highest and midmost, was descried 
The royal banner floating wide ; 

The staff, a pine-tree, strong and 
straight, 570 

Pitched deeply in a massive stone, 
Which still in memory is shown, 
Yet bent beneath the standard's weight, 
Whene'er the western wind unrolled 
With toil the huge and cumbrous 
fold. 
And gave to view the dazzling field, 
Where in proud Scotland's royal shield 
The ruddy lion ramped in gold. 

XXIX 

Lord Marmion viewed the landscape 

bright. 
He viewed it with a chief's delight, 580 

Until within him burned his heart, 
And lightning from his eye did part. 

As on the battle-day; 
Such glance did falcon never dart 
When stooping on his prey. 

* Oh ! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said. 
Thy king from warfare to dissuade 

Were but a vain essay; 
For, by Saint George, were that host mine, 
Not power infernal nor divine 590 

Should once to peace my soul incline, 
Till I had dimmed their armor's shine 

In glorious battle -fray ! ' 
Answered the bard, of milder mood: 

* Fair is the sight, — and yet 't were good 

Tliat kings would think withal. 
When peace and wealth their land has 

blessed, 
'T is better to sit still at rest 

Thau rise, perchance to fall.' 



124 



MARMION 



XXX 

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed, 600 
For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed. 
When sated with the martial show- 
That peopled all the plain below, 
The wandering eye could o'er it go. 
And mark the distant city glow 

With gloomy splendor red; 
For on the smoke- wreaths, huge and slow. 
That round her sable turrets flow. 

The morning beams were shed. 
And tinged them with a lustre proud, 610 
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. 
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height 
Where the huge castle holds its state. 

And all the steep slope down. 
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, 
Piled deep and massy, close and high. 

Mine own romantic town ! 
But northward far, with purer blaze, 
On Ochil mountains fell the rays. 
And as each heathy top they kissed, 620 
It gleamed a purple amethyst. 
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw. 
Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law; 

And, broad between them rolled. 
The gallant Firth the eye might note, 
Whose islands on its bosom float. 

Like emeralds chased in gold. 
Fitz-Eustace's heart felt closely pent; 
As if to give his rapture vent. 
The spur he to his charger lent, 630 

And raised his bridle hand. 
And making demi-volt in air, 
Cried, * Where 's the coward that would 
not dare 

To fight for such a land! ' 
The Lindesay smiled his joy to see, 
Nor Marmion's frown repressed his glee. 

XXXI 

Thus while they looked, a flourish proud, 
Where mingled trump, and clarion loud. 

And fife, and kettle-drum. 
And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 640 

And war-pipe with discordant cry. 
And cymbal clattering to the sky, 
Making wild music bold and high. 

Did up the mountain come; 
The whilst the bells with distant chime 
Merrily tolled the hour of prime. 

And thus the Lindesay spoke: 
* Thus clamor still the war-notes when 
The king to mass his way has ta'en, 
Or to Saint Catherine's of Sienne, 650 



Or Chapel of Saint Rocque. 
To you they speak of martial fame, 
But me remind of peaceful game. 

When blither was their cheer. 
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air, 
In signal none his steed should spare. 
But strive which foremost might repair 

To the downfall of the deer. 

XXXII 

* Nor less,' he said, * when looking forth 
I view yon Empress of the North 660 

Sit on her hilly throne. 
Her palace's imperial bowers. 
Her castle, proof to hostile powers. 
Her stately halls and holy towers — 

Nor less,' he said, * I moan 
To think what woe mischance may bring, 
And how these merry bells may ring 
The death-dirge of our gallant king. 

Or with their larum call 
The burghers forth to watch and ward, 670 
'Gainst Southern sack and fires to guard 

Dun-Edin's leaguered wall. — 
But not for my presaging thought. 
Dream conquest sure or cheaply bought ! 

Lord Marmion, I say nay: 
God is the guider of the field, 
He breaks the champion's spear and shield; 

But thou thyself shalt say. 
When joins yon host in deadly stowre, 679 
That England's dames must weep in bower, 

Her monks the death-mass sing; 
For never saw'st thou such a power 

Led on by such a king.' 
And now, down winding to the plain, 
The barriers of the camp they gain. 

And there they made a stay. — 
There stays the Minstrel, till he fling 
His hand o'er every Border string. 
And fit his harp the pomp to sing 
Of Scotland's ancient court and king, 690 

In the succeeding lay. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
FIFTH 

TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ. 

Edinburgh 
When dark December glooms the day, 
And takes our autumn joys away; 
When short and scant the sunbeam throws 
Upon the weary waste of snows 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH 



125 



A cold and profitless regard, 
Like patron on a needy bard; 
When sylvan occupation 's done, 
And o'er the chimney rests the gun, 
And hang in idle trophy near, 
The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; lo 
When wiry terrier, rough and grim. 
And greyhound, with his length of limb, 
And pointer, now employed no more. 
Cumber our parlor's narrow floor; 
When in his stall the impatient steed 
Is long condemned to rest and feed; 
When from our snow- encircled home 
Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam, 
Since path is none, save that to bring 
The needful water from the spring; 20 

When wrinkled news-page, thrice conned 

o'er. 
Beguiles the dreary hour no more, 
And darkling politician, crossed. 
Inveighs against the lingering post, 
And answering housewife sore complains 
Of carriers' snow-impeded wains ; — 
When such the country-cheer, I come 
Well pleased to seek our city home; 
For converse and for books to change 
The forest's melancholy range, 30 

And welcome with renewed delight 
The busy day and social night. 

Not here need my desponding rhyme 
Lament the ravages of time. 
As erst by Newark's riven towers. 
And Ettrick stripped of forest bowers. 
True, Caledonia's Queen is changed 
Since on her dusky summit ranged, 
Within its steepy limits pent 
By bulwark, line, and battlement, 40 

And flanking towers, and laky flood. 
Guarded and garrisoned she stood. 
Denying entrance or resort 
Save at each tall embattled port. 
Above whose arch, suspended, hung 
Portcullis spiked with iron prong. 
That long is gone, — but not so long 
Since, early closed and opening late, 
Jealous revolved the studded gate. 
Whose task, from eve to morning tide, 50 
A wicket churlishly supplied. 
Stern then and steel-girt was thy brow, 
Dun-Edin ! Oh, how altered now. 
When safe amid thy mountain court 
Thou sitt'st, like empress at her sport. 
And liberal, unconfined, and free. 
Flinging thy white arms to the sea. 



For thy dark cloud, with umbered lower, 
That hung o'er cliff and lake and tower. 
Thou gleam'st against the western ray 60 
Ten thousand lines of brighter day ! 

Not she, the championess of old, 
In Spenser's magic tale enrolled. 
She for the charmed spear renowned, 
Which forced each knight to kiss the 

ground, — 
Not she more changed, when, placed at 

rest. 
What time she was Malbecco's guest. 
She gave to flow her maiden vest; 
When, from the corselet's grasp relieved, 
Free to the sight her bosom heaved : 70 

Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, 
Erst hidden by the aventayle. 
And down her shoulders graceful rolled 
Her locks profuse of paly gold. 
They who whilom in midnight fight 
Had marvelled at her matchless might, 
No less her maiden charms approved. 
But looking liked, and liking loved. 
The sight could jealous pangs beguile. 
And charm Malbecco's cares awhile; 80 

And he, the wandering Squire of Dames, 
Forgot his Columbella's claims, 
And passion, erst unknown, could gain 
The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane ; 
Nor durst light Paridell advance. 
Bold as he was, a looser glance. 
She charmed, at once, and tamed the heart. 
Incomparable Britomart ! 

So thou, fair City ! disarrayed 
Of battled wall and rampart's aid, 90 

As stately seem'st, but lovelier far 
Than in that panoply of war. 
Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne 
Strength and security are flown ; 
Still as of yore. Queen of the North ! 
Still canst thou send thy children forth. 
Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call 
Thy burghers rose to man thy wall 
Than now, in danger, shall be thine, 
Thy dauntless voluntary line; io« 

For fosse and turret proud to stand. 
Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. 
Thy thousands, trained to martial toil. 
Full red would stain their native soil. 
Ere from thy mural crown there fell 
The slightest knosp or pinnacle. 
And if it come, as come it may, 
Dun-Edin ! that eventful day, 



126 



MARMION 



Renowned for hospitable deed, 109 

That virtue much with Heaven may plead, 
In patriarchal times whose care 
Descending angels deigned to share ; 
That claim may wrestle blessings down 
On those who fight for the Good Town, 
Destined in every age to be 
Refuge of injured royalty; 
Since first, when conquering York arose, 
To Henry meek she gave repose, 
Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe. 
Great Bourbon's relics sad she saw. 120 

Truce to these thoughts ! — for, as they 
rise. 
How gladly I avert mine eyes, 
Bodings, or true or false, to change 
For Fiction's fair romantic range. 
Or for tradition's dubious light, 
That hovers 'twixt the day and night: 
Dazzling alternately and dim. 
Her wavering lamp I 'd rather trim, 
Knights, squires, and lovely dames to see, 
Creation of my fantasy, 130 

Than gaze abroad on reeky fen. 
And make of mists invading men. — 
Who loves not more the night of June 
Than dull December's gloomy noon ? 
The moonlight than the fog of frost ? 
And can we say which cheats the most ? 

But who shall teach my harp to gain 
A sound of the romantic strain 
Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere 
Could win the royal Henry's ear, 140 

Famed Beauclerk called, for that he loved 
The minstrel and his lay approved ? 
Who shall these lingering notes redeem, 
Decaying on Oblivion's stream; 
Such notes as from the Breton tongue 
Marie translated, Blondel sung ? — 
Oh ! born Time's ravage to repair, 
And make the dying Muse thy care ; 
Who, when bis scythe her hoary foe 
Was poising for the final blow, 150 

The weapon from his hand could ring, 
And break his glass and shear his wing, 
And bid, reviving in his strain, 
The gentle poet live again; 
Thou, who canst give to lightest lay 
An unpedantic moral gay, 
Nor less the dullest theme bid flit 
On wings of unexpected wit; 
In letters as in life approved, 
Example honored and beloved, — x6o 



Dear Ellis ! to the bard impart 
A lesson of thy magic art. 
To win at once the head and heart, — 
At once to charm, instruct, and mend. 
My guide, my pattern, and my friend ! 

Such minstrel lesson to bestow 
Be long thy pleasing task, — but, oh ! 
No more by thy example teach 
What few can practise, all can preach, — 
With even patience to endure 170 

Lingering disease and painful cure. 
And boast affliction's pangs subdued 
By mild and manly fortitude. 
Enough, the lesson has been given: 
Forbid the repetition. Heaven ! 

Come listen, then ! for thou hast known 
And loved the Minstrel's varying tone, 
Who, like his Border sires of old. 
Waked a wild measure rude and bold, 
Till Windsor's oaks and Ascot plain 180 
With wonder heard the Northern strain. 
Come listen ! bold in thy applause, 
The bard shall scorn pedantic laws; 
And, as the ancient art could stain 
Achievements on the storied pane, 
Irregularly traced and planned. 
But yet so glowing and so grand. 
So shall he strive, in changeful hue, 
Field, feast, and combat to renew. 
And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee, 190 
And all the pomp of chivalry. 



CANTO FIFTH 



THE COURT 



The train has left the hills of Braid; 
The barrier guard have open made — 
So Lindesay bade — the palisade 

That closed the tented ground; 
Their men the warders backward drew, 
And carried pikes as they rode through 

Into its ample bound. 
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there, 
Upon the Southern band to stare, 
And envy with their wonder rose, i 

To see such well-appointed foes; 
Such length of shafts, such mighty bows, 
So huge that many simply thought 
But for a vaunt such weapons wrought, 
1 And little deemed their force to feel 



CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT 



1^7 



Through links of mail and plates of steel 
When, rattling upon Flodden vale, 
The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail. 

II 

Nor less did Marmion's skilful view 
Glance every line and squadron through, 20 
And much he marvelled one small land 
Could marshal forth such various band; 

For men-at-arms were here. 
Heavily sheathed in mail and plate, 
Like iron towers for strength and weight. 
On Flemish steeds of bone and height, 

With battle-axe and spear. 
Young knights and squires, a lighter 

train. 
Practised their chargers on the plain, 
By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 30 

Each warlike feat to show, 
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, 
And high curvet, that not in vain 
The sword-sway might descend amain 

On foeman's casque below. 
He saw the hardy burghers there 
March armed on foot with faces bare. 

For visor they wore none. 
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight; 
But burnished were their corselets bright, 40 
Their brigantines and gorgets light 

Like very silver shone. 
Long pikes they had for standing fight. 

Two-handed swords they wore. 
And many wielded mace of weight, 

And bucklers bright they bore. 

Ill 

On foot the yeomar 00, but dressed 

In his steel-jack, ^> swarthy vest, 
With iron qui: ted well; 

Each ar. his back — a slender store — 50 

His foriy days' provision bore. 
As feujdal statutes tell. 

His arms were halbert, axe, or spear, 

A crossbow there, a hagbut here, 
T. V dagger-knife, and brand. 
Startber he seemed and sad of cheer, 
Ands loath to leave his cottage dear 
Bu^ And march to foreign strand, 
AjOr musing who would guide his steer 
f To till the fallow land. 60 

Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye 

Did auglit of dastard terror lie; 
More dreadful far his ire 

Than theirs who, scorning danger's name, 

In eager mood to battle came, 



Their valor like light straw on flame, 
A fierce but fading fire. 

IV 
Not so the Borderer: — bred to war, 
He knew the battle's din afar, 

And joyed to hear it swell. 70 

His peaceful day was slothful ease; 
Nor harp nor pipe his ear could please 

Like the loud slogan yell. 
On active steed, with lance and blade, 
The light-armed pricker plied his trade, — 

Let nobles fight for fame; 
Let vassals follow where they lead. 
Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed, 

But war 's the Borderers' game. 
Their gain, their glory, their delight, 80 
To sleep the day, maraud the night. 

O'er mountain, moss, and moor; 
Joyful to fight they took their way. 
Scarce caring who might win the day, 

Their booty was secure. 
These, as Lord Marmion's train passed by, 
Looked on at first with careless eye, 
Nor marvelled aught, well taught to know 
The form and force of English bow. 
But when they saw the lord arrayed 90 

In splendid arms and rich brocade. 
Each Borderer to his kinsman said, — 

* Hist, Ringan ! seest thou there ! 
Canst guess which road they '11 homeward 

ride? 
Oh ! could we but on Border side, 
By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide. 

Beset a prize so fair ! 
That fangless Lion, too, their guide, 
Might chance to lose his glistering hide; 
Brown Maudlin of that doublet pied 100 

Could make a kirtle rare.' 



Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race, 
Of different language, form, and face, 

A various race of man; 
Just then the chiefs their tribes arrayed. 
And wild and garish semblance made 
The checkered trews and belted plaid. 
And varying notes the war-pipes brayed 

To every varying clan. 
Wild through their red or sable hair no 
Looked out their eyes with savage stare 

On Marmion as he passed; 
Their legs above the knee were bare; 
Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare, 

And hardened to the blast; 



128 



MARMION 



Of taller race, the chiefs they own 

Were by the eagle's plumage known. 

The hunted red-deer's undressed hide 

Their hairy buskins well supplied; 

The graceful bonnet decked their head; 120 

Back from their shoulders hung the plaid; 

A broadsword of unwieldy length, 

A dagger proved for edge and strength, 

A studded targe they wore. 
And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but, oh ! 
Short was the shaft and weak the bow 

To that which England bore. 
The Isles-men carried at their backs 
The ancient Danish battle-axe. 
They raised. a wild and wondering cry, 130 
As with his guide rode Marmion by. 
Loud were their clamoring tongues, as 

when 
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen. 
And, with their cries discordant mixed. 
Grumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt. 

VI 

Thus through the Scottish camp they 

passed. 
And reached the city gate at last. 
Where all around, a wakeful guard, 
Armed burghers kept their watch and 

ward. 
Well had they cause of jealous fear, 140 
When lay encamped in field so near 
The Borderer and the Mountaineer. 
As through the bustling streets they go, 
All was alive with martial show; 
At every turn with dinning clang 
The armorer's anvil clashed and rang, 
Or toiled the swarthy smith to wheel 
The bar that arms the charger's heel. 
Or axe or falchion to the side 
Of jarring grindstone was applied. 150 

Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying 

pace. 
Through street and lane and market-place, 

Bore lance or casque or sword; 
While burghers, with important face. 

Described each new-come lord. 
Discussed his lineage, told his name. 
His following, and his warlike fame. 
The Lion led to lodging meet, 
Which high o'erlooked the crowded street; 

There must the baron rest 160 

Till past the hour of vesper tide, 
And then to Holy-Rood must ride, — 

Such was the king's behest. 
Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns 



A banquet rich and costly wines 

To Marmion and his train; 
And when the appointed hour succeeds, 
The baron dons his peaceful weeds. 
And following Lindesay as he leads, 

The palace halls they gain. 170 

VII 

Old Holy-Rood rung merrily 

That night with wassail, mirth, and glee : 

King James within her princely bower 

Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power, 

Summoned to spend the parting hour; 

For he had charged that his array 

Should southward march by break of 

day. 
Well loved that splendid monarch aye 

The banquet and the song. 
By day the tourney, and by night 180 

The merry dance, traced fast and light. 
The maskers quaint, the pageant bright. 

The revel loud and long. 
This feast outshone his banquets past; 
It was his blithest — and his last. 
The dazzling lamps from gallery gay 
Cast on the court a dancing ray; 
Here to the harp did minstrels sing. 
There ladies touched a softer string; 
With long-eared cap and motley vest, 190 
The licensed fool retailed his jest; 
His magic tricks the juggler plied; 
At dice and draughts the gallants vied; 
While some, in close recess apart, 
Courted the ladies of their heart, 

Nor courted them in vain; 
For often in the parting hour 
Victorious Love asserts his power 

O'er coldness and disdi -; 
And flinty is her heart can view 200 

To battle march a lover true — 
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, 

Nor own her share of pain. 

VIII 

Through this mixed crowd of glee art' 

game 
The king to greet Lord Marmion came. 

While, reverent, all made room. 
An easy task it was, I trow. 
King James's manly form to know, 
Although, his courtesy to show. 
He doffed to Marmion bending low 210 

His broidered cap and plume. 
For royal were his garb and mien: 



CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT 



129 



His cloak of crimson velvet piled, 
Trimmed with the fur of marten wild, 
His vest of changeful satin sheen. 

The dazzled eye beguiled; 
His gorgeous collar hung adown, 
Wrought with the badge of Scotland's 

crown, 
The thistle brave of old renown; 
His trusty blade, Toledo right, 220 

Descended from a baldric bright; 
White were his buskins, on the heel 
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel; 
His bonnet, all of crimson fair, 
Was buttoned with a ruby rare: 
And Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen 
A prince of such a noble mien. 

IX 

The monarch's form was middle size, 
For feat of strength or exercise 

Shaped in proportion fair; 230 

And hazel was his eagle eye, 
And auburn of the darkest dye 

His short curled beard and hair. 
Light was his footstep in the dance, 

And firm his stirrup in the lists ; 
And, oh ! he had that merry glance 

That seldom lady's heart resists. 
Lightly from fair to fair he flew, 
And loved to plead, lament, and sue, — 
Suit lightly won and short-lived pain, 240 
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. 

I said he joyed in banquet bower; 
But, mid his mirth, 't was often strange 
How suddenly his cheer would change, 

His look o'ercast and lower, 
If in a sudden turn he felt 
The pressure of his iron belt. 
That bound his breast in penance pain. 
In memory of his father slain. 
Even so 't was strange how evermore, 250 
Soon as the passing pang was o'er. 
Forward he rushed with double glee 
Into the stream of revelry. 
Thus dim-seen object of affright 
Startles the courser in his flight. 
And half he halts, half springs aside. 
But feels the quickening spur applied, 
And, straining on the tightened rein, 
Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain. 



O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 260 
Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway; 
To Scotland's court she came, 



To be a hostage for her lord. 

Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored, 

And with the king to make accord 

Had sent his lovely dame. 
Nor to that lady free alone 
Did the gay king allegiance own; 

For the fair Queen of France 
Sent him a turquoise ring and glove, 270 
And charged him, as her knight and love, 

For her to break a lance. 
And strike three strokes with Scottish 

brand. 
And march three miles on Southron land 
And bid the banners of his band 

In English breezes dance. 
And thus for France's queen he drest 
His manly limbs in mailed vest. 
And thus admitted English fair 
His inmost councils still to share, 280 

And thus for both he madly planned 
The ruin of himself and land ! 

And yet, the sooth to tell, 
Nor England's fair nor France's queen 
Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and 
sheen, 

From Margaret's eyes that fell, — 
His own Queen Margaret, who in Lith- 

gow's bower 
All lonely sat and wept the weary hour. 

XI 

The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile. 

And weeps the weary day 290 

The war against her native soil. 
Her monarch's risk in battle broil, — 
And in gay Holy-Rood the while 
Dame Heron rises with a smile 

Upon the harp to play. 
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 

The strings her fingers flew; 
And as she touched and tuned them all, 
Ever her bosom's rise and fall 

Was plainer given to view; 300 

For, all for heat, was laid aside 
Her wimple, and her hood untied. 
And first she pitched her voice to sing. 
Then glanced her dark eye on the king. 
And then around the silent ring. 
And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say 
Her pretty oath, by yea and nay. 
She could not, would not, durst not play ! 
At length, upon the harp, with glee, 
Mingled with arch simplicity, 3 10 

A soft yet lively air she rung, 
While thus the wily lady sung: — 



130 



MARMION 



XII 

LOCHINVAR 

LADY heron's SONG 

Oh ! young Lochinvar is come out of the 

west, 
Through all the wide Border his steed was 

the best; 
And save his good broadsword he weapons 

had none, 
He rode all unarmed and he rode all 

alone. 
So faithful in love and so dauntless in 

war, 
There never was knight like the young 

Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake and he stopped 
not for stone, 

He swam the Eske river where ford there 
was none; 320 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate 

The bride had consented, the gallant came 
late: 

For a laggard in love and a dastard in 
war 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- 
invar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and bro- 
thers, and all: 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on 
his sword, — 

For the poor craven bridegroom said never 
a word, — 

* Oh ! come ye in peace here, or come ye 

in war. 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 
Lochinvar ? ' — 330 

* I long wooed your daughter, my suit you 

denied; 
Love swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like 

its tide — 
And now am I come, with this lost love of 

mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 

wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely 

by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young 

Lochinvar.' 



The bride kissed the goblet; the knight 

took it up. 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw 

down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked 

up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her 

eye. 340 

He took her soft hand ere her mother could 

bar, — 
* Now tread we a measure ! ' said young 

Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her 

face. 
That never a hall such a galliard did 

grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her father 

did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his . 

bonnet and plume ; 
And the bride-maidens whispered, ' 'T were 

better by far 
To have matched our fair cousin with 

young Lochinvar.' 



One touch to her hand and one word in 

her ear. 
When they reached the hall-door, and the 

charger stood near; 350 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he * 

swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he 

sprung ! 
* She is won ! we are gone, over bank, 

bush, and scaur ; 
They '11 have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth 

young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 

Netherby clan; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 

rode and they ran: 
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie 

Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 

they see. 

So daring in love and so dauntless in war, ** 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Lochinvar ? 360 

XIII 
The monarch o'er the siren hung, 
And beat the measure as she sung; 
And, pressing closer and more near, 



CANTO FIFTH : THE COURT 



13* 



He whispered praises in her ear. 
In loud applause the courtiers vied, 
And ladies winked and spoke aside. 
The witching dame to Marmion threw 

A glance, where seemed to reign 
The pride that claims applauses due, 
And of her royal conquest too 370 

A real or feigned disdain: 
Familiar was the look, and told 
Marmion and she were friends of old. 
The king observed their meeting eyes 
With something like displeased surprise; 
For monarchs ill can rivals brook, 
Even in a word, or smile, or look. 
Straight took he forth the parchment 

broad 
Which Marmion's high commission 

showed: 
* Our Borders sacked by many a raid, 380 
Our peaceful liege-men robbed,' he said, 
' On day of truce our warden slain. 
Stout Barton killed, his vessels ta'en — 
Unworthy were we here to reign. 
Should these for vengeance cry in vain; 
Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Our herald has to Henry borne.' 

XIV 

He paused, and led where Douglas stood 

And with stern eye the pageant viewed; 

I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 390 

Who coronet of Angus bore. 

And, when his blood and heart were high, 

Did the third James in camp defy, 

And all his minions led to die 

On Lauder's dreary flat. 
Princes and favorites long grew tame, 
And trembled at the homely name 

Of Archibald BelUhe-Cat; 
The same who left the dusky vale 
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 400 

Its dungeons and its towers. 
Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air, 
And Bothwell bank is blooming fair. 

To fix his princely bowers. 
Though now in age he had laid down 
His armor for the peaceful gown. 

And for a staff his brand. 
Yet often would flash forth the fire 
That could in youth a monarch's ire 

And minion's pride withstand; 410 

And even that day at council board, 

Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood. 

Against the war had Angus stood, 
And chafed his royal lord. 



XV 

His giant-form, like ruined tower, 
Though fallen its muscles' brawny vaunt. 
Huge - boned, and tall, and grim, and 
gaunt, 

Seemed o'er the gaudy scene to lower; 
His locks and beard in silver grew. 
His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 42c 

Near Douglas when the monarch stood. 
His bitter speech he thus pursued : 
' Lord Marmion, since these letters say 
That in the North you needs must stay 

While slightest hopes of peace remain, 
Uncourteous speech it were and stern 
To say — Return to Lindisfarne, 

Until my herald come again. 
Then rest you in Tantallon hold; 
Your host shall be the Douglas bold, — 430 
A chief unlike his sires of old. 
He wears their motto on his blade. 
Their blazon o'er his towers displayed, 
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose 
More than to face his country's foes. 

And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen, 

But e'en this morn to me was given 
A prize, the first fruits of the war, 
Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, 

A bevy of the maids of heaven. 440 

Under your guard these holy maids 
Shall safe return to cloister shades. 
And, while they at Tantallon stay. 
Requiem for Cochran's soul may say.' 
And with the slaughtered favorite's name 
Across the monarch's brow there came 
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. 

XVI 

In answer nought could Angus speak, 
His proud heart swelled well-nigh to break; 
He turned aside, and down his cheek 450 

A burning tear there stole. 
His hand the monarch sudden took, 
That sight his kind heart could not brook: 

* Now, by the Bruce's soul, 
Angus, my hasty speech forgive ! 
For sure as doth his spirit live, 
As he said of the Douglas old, 

I well may say of you, — 
That never king did subject hold. 
In speech more free, in war more bold, 4(k 

More tender and more true; 
Forgive me, Douglas, once again.' — 
And, while the king his hand did strain. 
The old man's tears fell down like rain. 
To seize the moment Marmion tried, 



132 



MARMION 



Aud whispered to the king aside: 

* Oh ! let such tears unwonted plead 
For respite short from dubious deed ! 
A child will weep a bramble's smart, 

A maid to see her sparrow part, 47c 

A stripling for a woman's heart; 
But woe awaits a country when 
She sees the tears of bearded men. 
Then, oh ! what omen, dark and high, 
When Douglas wets his manly eye ! ' 

XVII 

Displeased was James that stranger viewed 
And tampered with his changing mood. 

* Laugh those that can, weep those that 

may,' 
Thus did the fiery monarch say, 

* Southward I march by break of day ; 480 
And if within Tantallon strong 

The good Lord Marmion tarries long. 
Perchance our meeting next may fall 
At Tam worth in his castle-hall.' — 
The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, 
And answered grave the royal vaunt: 

* Much honored were my humble home, 
If in its halls King James should come; 
But Nottingham has archers good, 

And Yorkshire men are stern of mood, 490 
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude. 
On Derby Hills the paths are steep, 
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep; 
And many a banner will be torn, 
And many a knight to earth be borne, 
And many a sheaf of arrows spent. 
Ere Scotland's king shall cross the Trent : 
Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you 



may 



f ' 



The monarch lightly turned away, 

And to his nobles loud did call, 500 

* Lords, to the dance, — a hall ! a hall ! ' 

Himself his cloak and sword flung by. 

And led Dame Heron gallantly; 

And minstrels, at the royal order, 

Rung out * Blue Bonnets o'er the Border.' 

XVIII 

Leave we these revels now to tell 

What to Saint Hilda's maids befell. 

Whose galley, as they sailed again 

To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. 

Now at Dun-Edin did they bide 510 

Till James should of their fate decide. 

And soon by his command 
Were gently summoned to prepare 
To journey ander Marmion 's care, 



As escort honored, safe, and fair. 

Again to English land. 
The abbess told her chaplet o'er. 
Nor knew which Saint she should implore; 
For, when she thought of Constance, sore 

She feared Lord Marmion's mood. 52c 
And judge what Clara must have felt ! 
The sword that hung in Marmion's belt 

Had drunk De Wilton's blood. 
Unwittingly King James had given, 

As guard to Whitby's shades. 
The man most dreaded under heaven 

By these defenceless maids; 
Yet what petition could avail, 
Or who would listen to the tale 
Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 530 

Mid bustle of a war begun ? 
They deemed it hopeless to avoid 
The convoy of their dangerous guide. 

XIX 
Their lodging, so the king assigned, 
To Marmion's, as their guardian, joined; 
And thus it fell that, passing nigh, 
The Palmer caught the abbess' eye. 

Who warned him by a scroll 
She had a secret to reveal 
That much concerned the Church's weal 

And health of sinner's soul; 541 

And, with deep charge of secrecy, 

She named a place to meet 
Within an open balcony. 
That hung from dizzy pitch and high 

Above the stately street. 
To which, as common to each home, 
At night they might in secret come. 

XX 

At night in secret there they came. 

The Palmer and the holy dame. 550 

The moon among the clouds rode high. 

And all the city hum was by. 

Upon the street, where late before 

Did din of war and warriors roar, 

You might have heard a pebble fall, 
A beetle hum, a cricket sing, 
An owlet flap his boding wing 

On Giles's steeple tall. 
The antique buildings, climbing high, 
Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky, 56c 

Were here wrapt deep in shade; 
There on their brows the moonbeam broke, 
Through the faint wreaths of silvery 
smoke. 

And on the casements played. 



CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT 



133 



And other light was none to see, 

Save torches gliding far, 
Before some chieftain of degree 
Who left the royal revelry 

To bowne him for the war. — 
A solemn scene the abbess chose, 570 

A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. 

XXI 

* O holy Palmer ! ' she began, — 

* For sure he must be sainted man. 
Whose blessed feet have trod the ground 
Where the Redeemer's tomb is found, — 
For his dear Church's sake, my tale 
Attend, nor deem of light avail, 
Though I must speak of worldly love, — 
How vain to those who wed above ! — 

De Wilton and Lord Marmion wooed 580 

Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood; — 

Idle it were of Whitby's dame 

To say of that same blood I came ; — 

And once, when jealous rage was high, 

Lord Marmion said despiteously, 

Wilton was traitor in his heart. 

And had made league with Martin Swart 

When he came here on Simnel's part. 

And only cowardice did restrain 

His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain, — 590 

And down he threw his glove. The thing 

Was tried, as wont, before the king; 

Where frankly did De Wilton own 

That Swart in Guelders he had known. 

And that between them then there went 

Some scroll of courteous compliment. 

For this he to his castle sent; 

But when his messenger returned, 

Judge how De Wilton's fury burned ! 

For in his packet there were laid 600 

Letters that claimed disloyal aid 

And proved King Henry's cause betrayed. 

His fame, thus blighted, in the field 

He strove to clear by spear and shield; — 

To clear his fame in vain he strove, 

For wondrous are His ways above ! 

Perchance some form was unobserved, 

Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved. 

Else how could guiltless champion quail. 

Or how the blessed ordeal fail ? 610 

XXII 

* His squire, who now De Wilton saw 
As recreant doomed to suffer law. 

Repentant, owned in vain 
That while he had the scrolls in care 
A stranger maiden, passing fair, 



Had drenched him with a beverage rare; 

His words no faith could gain. 
With Clare alone he credence won, 
Who, rather than wed Marmion, 
Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair, 62c 

To give our house her livings fair 
And die a vestal votaress there. 
The impulse from the earth was given, 
But bent her to the paths of heaven. 
A purer heart, a lovelier maid. 
Ne'er sheltered her in Whitby's shade, 
No, not since Saxon Edelfled; 
Only one trace of earthly stain, 

That for her lover's loss 
She cherishes a sorrow vain, 630 

And murmurs at the cross. — 
And then her heritage : — it goes 

Along the banks of Tame; 
Deep fields of grain the reaper mows. 
In meadows rich the heifer lows. 
The falconer and huntsman knows 

Its woodlands for the game. 
Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, 
And I, her humble votaress here. 

Should do a deadly sin, 640 

Her temple spoiled before mine eyes, 
If this false Marmion such a prize 

By my consent should win; 
Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn 
That Clare shall from our house be torn, 
And grievous cause have I to fear 
Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear. 

XXIII 

* Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed 
To evil power, I claim thine aid, 

By every step that thou hast trod 650 
To holy shrine and grotto dim. 
By every martyr's tortured limb. 
By angel, saint, and seraphim, 

And by the Church of God ! 
For mark: when Wilton was betrayed, 
And with his squire forged letters laid, 
She was, alas ! that sinful maid 

By whom the deed was done, — 
Oh ! shame and horror to be said ! 

She was — a perjured nun ! 660 

No clerk in all the land like her 
Traced quaint and varying character. 
Perchance you may a marvel deem. 

That Marmion's paramour — 
For such vile thing she was — should 
scheme 

Her lover's nuptial hour; 
But o'er him thus she hoped to gain, 



134 



MARMION 



As privy to his honor's stain, 

Illimitable power. 
For this she secretly retained 670 

Each proof that might the plot reveal, 

Instructions with his hand and seal; 
And thus Saint Hilda deigned, 

Through sinners' perfidy impure, 

Her house's glory to secure 

And Clare's immortal weal. 

XXIV 

' 'T were long and needless here to tell 
How to my hand these papers fell; 

With me they must not stay. 
Saint Hilda keep her abbess true ! 680 

Who knows what outrage he might do 

W^hile journeying by the way ? — 

blessed Saint, if e'er again 

1 venturous leave thy calm domain. 
To travel or by laud or main. 

Deep penance may I pay ! — 
Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer: 
I give this packet to thy care. 
For thee to stop they will not dare; 

And oh ! with cautious speed 690 

To Wolsey's hand the papers bring, 
That he may show them to the king: 

And for thy well-earned meed. 
Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine 
A weekly mass shall still be thine 

While priests can sing and read. — 
What ail'st thou ? — Speak ! ' — For as he 

took 
The charge a strong emotion shook 

His frame, and ere reply 
They heard a faint yet shrilly tone, 700 

Like distant clarion feebly blown. 

That on the breeze did die; 
And loud the abbess shrieked in fear, 
• Saint Withold, save us ! — What is here ! 

Look at yon City Cross ! 
See on its battled tower appear 
Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear 

And blazoned banners toss ! ' — 

XXV 

Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillared stone, 

Rose on a turret octagon; — 710 

But now is razed that monument, 

Whence royal edict rang. 
And voice of Scotland's law was sent 

In glorious trumpet-clang. 
Oh ! be his tomb as lead to lead 
Upon its dull destroyer's head ! — 
A. minstrel's malison is said. — 



Then on its battlements they saw 
A vision, passing Nature's law, 

Strange, wild, and dimly seen; 720 

Figures that seemed to rise and die. 
Gibber and sign, advance and fly, 
While nought confirmed could ear or eye 

Discern of sound or mien. 
Yet darkly did it seem as there 
Heralds and pursuivants prepare, 
With trumpet sound and blazon fair, 

A summons to proclaim ; 
But indistinct the pageant proud, 
As fancy forms of midnight cloud 730 

When flings the moon upon her shroud 

A wavering tinge of flame ; 
It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, 
From midmost of the spectre crowd, 

This awful summons came : — 

XXVI 

* Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, 

Whose names I now shall call, 
Scottish or foreigner, give ear ! 
Subjects of him who sent me here, 
At his tribunal to appear 740 

I summon one and all: 
I cite you by each deadly sin 
That e'er hath soiled your hearts within; 
I cite you by each brutal lust 
That e'er defiled your earthly dust, — 

By wrath, by pride, by fear. 
By each o'ermastering passion's tone, 
By the dark grave and dying groan ! 
When forty days are passed and gone, 
I cite you, at your monarch's throne 750 

To answer and appear.' — 
Then thundered forth a roll of names : — 
The first was thine, unhappy James ! 

Then all thy nobles came; 
Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, 
Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle, — 
Why should I tell their separate style ? 

Each chief of birth and fame, 
Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, 
Foredoomed to Flodden's carnage pile, 760 

Was cited there by name; 
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye; 
De Wilton, erst of Aberley, 
The self-same thundering voice did say. — 

But then another spoke: 
*Thy fatal summons I deny 
And thine infernal lord defy. 
Appealing me to Him on high 

Who burst the sinner's yoke.' 770 



CANTO FIFTH: THE COURT 



^35 



At that dread accent, with a scream, 
Parted the pageant like a dream, 

The summoner was gone. 
Prone on her face the abbess fell, 
And fast, and fast, her beads did tell; 
Her nuns came, startled by the yell. 

And found her there alone. 
She marked not, at the scene aghast. 
What time or how the Palmer passed. 

XXVII 

8hift we the scene. — The camp doth 
move ; 780 

Dun-Edin's streets are empty now. 
Save when, for weal of those they love, 

To pray the prayer and vow the vow, 
The tottering child, the anxious fair. 
The gray-haired sire, with pious care. 
To chapels and to shrines repair. — 
Where is the Palmer now ? and where 
The abbess, Marmion, and Clare ? — 
Bold Douglas ! to Tantallon fair 

They journey in thy charge: 790 

Lord Marmion rode on his right hand, 
The Palmer still was with the band; 
Angus, like Lindesay, did command 

That none should roam at large. 
But in that Palmer's altered mien 
A wondrous change might now be seen; 

Freely he spoke of war. 
Of marvels wrought by single hand 
When lifted for a native land, 
And still looked high, as if he planned 800 

Some desperate deed afar. 
His courser would he feed and stroke. 
And, tucking up his sable frock. 
Would first his mettle bold provoke, 

Then soothe or quell his pride. 
Old Hubert said that never one 
He saw, except Lord Marmipn, 

A steed so fairly ride. 

XXVIII 

Some half-hour's march behind there came, 
By Eustace governed fair, 810 

A troop escorting Hilda's dame, 
With all her nuns and Clare. 

No audience had Lord Marmion sought; 
Ever he feared to aggravate 
Clara de Clare's suspicious hate; 

And safer 't was, he thought, 

To wait till, from the nuns removed. 
The influence of kinsmen loved. 
And suit by Henry's self approved, 

Her slow consent had wrought. 820 



His was no flickering flame, that dies 
Unless when fanned by looks and sighs 
And lighted oft at lady's eyes; 
He longed to stretch his wide command 
O'er luckless Clara's ample land: 
Besides, when Wilton with him vied. 
Although the pang of humbled pride 
The place of jealousy supplied. 
Yet conquest, by that meanness won 
He almost loathed to think upon, 83a 
Led him, at times, to hate the cause 
Which made him burst through honor's 

laws. 
If e'er he loved, 't was her alone 
Who died within that vault of stone. 

XXIX 

And now, when close at hand they saw 
North Berwick's town and lofty Law, 
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile 
Before a venerable pile 

Whose turrets viewed afar 
The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 840 

The ocean's peace or war. 
At tolling of a bell, forth came 
The convent's venerable dame. 
And prayed Saint Hilda's abbess rest 
With her, a loved and honored guest. 
Till Douglas should a bark prepare 
To waft her back to Whitby fair. 
Glad was the abbess, you may guess. 
And thanked the Scottish prioress; 
And tedious were to tell, I ween, 850 

The courteous speech that passed be- 
tween. 

O'er joyed the nuns their palfreys leave; 
But when fair Clara did intend. 
Like them, from horseback to descend, 

Fitz-Eustace said: * I grieve. 
Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart. 
Such gentle company to part; — 

Think not discourtesy. 
But lords' commands must be obeyed. 
And Marmion and the Douglas said 860 

That you must wend with me. 
Lord Marmion hath a letter broad. 
Which to the Scottish earl he showed. 
Commanding that beneath his care 
Without delay you shall repair 
To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.' 

XXX 

The startled abbess loud exclaimed; 
But she at whom the blow was aimed 
Grew pale as death and cold as lead, — 



136 



MARMION 



She deemed she heard her death - doom 
read. 870 

* Cheer thee, my child ! ' the abbess said, 

* They dare not tear thee from my hand, 
To ride alone with armed baud.' — 

* Nay, holy mother, nay,' 
Fitz-Eustace said, * the lovely Clare 
Will be in Lady Angus' care. 

In Scotland while we stay; 
And when we move an easy ride 
Will bring us to the English side, 
Female attendance to provide 880 

Befitting Gloster's heir; 
Nor thinks nor dreams my noble lord, 
By slightest look, or act, or word, 

To harass Lady Clare. 
Her faithful guardian he will be, 
Nor sue for slightest courtesy 

That e'en to stranger falls, 
Till he shall place her safe and free 

Within her kinsman's halls.' 889 

He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace ; 
His faith was painted on his face. 

And Clare's worst fear relieved. 
The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed 
On Henry, and the Douglas blamed. 

Entreated, threatened, grieved. 
To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed 
Against Lord Marmion inveighed, 
And called the prioress to aid. 
To curse with candle, bell, and book. 
Her head the grave Cistertian shook: 900 

* The Douglas and the king,' she said, 

* In their commands will be obeyed ; 
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can 

fall 
The maiden in Tantallon Hall.' 

XXXI 

The abbess, seeing strife was vain. 
Assumed her wonted state again, — 

For much of state she had, — 
Composed her veil, and raised her head. 
And *Bid,' in solemn voice she said, 

* Thy master, bold and bad, 910 
The records of his house turn o'er. 

And, when he shall there written see 
That one of his own ancestry 
Drove the monks forth of Coventry, 

Bid him his fate explore ! 

Prancing in pride of earthly trust, 
His charger hurled him to the dust, 
And, by a base plebeian thrust, 

He died his band before. 



God judge 'twixt Marmion and me: 920 

He is a chief of high degree, 
And I a poor recluse. 

Yet oft in holy writ we see 

Even such weak minister as me 
May the oppressor bruise; 

For thus, inspired, did Judith slay 
The mighty in his sin. 

And Jael thus, and Deborah ' — 

Here hasty Blount broke in: 929 

* Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band ; 
Saint Anton' fire thee ! wilt thou stand 
All day, with bonnet in thy hand, 

To hear the lady preach ? 
By this good light ! if thus we stay, 
Lord Marmion for our fond delay 

Will sharper sermon teach. 
Come, don thy cap and mount thy horse; 
The dame must patience take perforce.' 

XXXII 

* Submit we then to force,' said Clare, 

* But let this barbarous lord despair 940 

His purposed aim to win; 
Let him take living, land, and life, 
But to be Marmion's wedded wife 
In me were deadly sin: 
And if it be the king's decree 
That I must find no sanctuary 
In that inviolable dome 
Where even a homicide might come 

And safely rest his head, 
Though at its open portals stood, 950 

Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood, 

The kinsmen of the dead, 
Yet one asylum is my own 

Against the dreaded hour, — 
A low, a silent, and alone. 

Where kings have little power. 
One victim is before me there. — 
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer 
Remember your unhappy Clare ! ' 
Loud weeps the abbess, and bestows 960 

Kind blessings many a one; 
Weeping and wailing loud arose. 
Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes 

Of every simple nun. 
His eyes the gentle Eustace dried. 
And scarce rude Blount the sight could 
bide. 

Then took the squire her rein. 
And gently led away her steed. 
And by each courteous word and deed 

To cheer her strove in vain, 970 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH 



137 



XXXIII 

But scant three miles the band had rode,, 

When o'er a height they passed, 
And, sudden, close before them showed 

His towers Tantallon vast, 
Broad, massive, high, and stretching far, 
And held impregnable in war. 
On a projecting rock they rose. 
And round three sides the ocean flows. 
The fourth did battled walls enclose 

And double mound and fosse. 980 

By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong, 
Through studded gates, an entrance long. 

To the main court they cross. 
It was a wide and stately square; 
Around were lodgings fit and fair, 

And towers of various form, 
Which on the court projected far 
And broke its lines quadrangular. 
Here was square keep, there turret high, 
Or pinnacle that sought the sky, 990 

Whence oft the warder could descry 

The gathering ocean-storm. 

XXXIV 

Here did they rest. — The princely care 
Of Douglas why should I declare, 
Or say they met reception fair ? 

Or why the tidings say. 
Which varying to Tantallon came, 
By hurrying posts or fleeter fame, 

With every varying day ? 
And, first, they heard King James had 
won 1000 

Etall, and Wark, and Ford; and then. 

That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. 
At that sore marvelled Marmion, 
And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand 
Would soon subdue Northumberland; 

But whispered news there came. 
That while his host inactive lay. 
And melted by degrees away. 
King James was dallying off the day 

With Heron's wily dame. 10 10 

Such acts to chronicles I yield; 

Go seek them there and see: 
Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, 

And not a history. — 
At length they heard the Scottish host 
On that high ridge had made their post 

Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain; 
And that brave Surrey many a band 
Had gathered in the Southern land, 
And marched into Northumberland, 1020 

And camp at Wooler ta'en. 



Marmion, like charger in the stall, 
That hears, without, the trumpet-call, 

Began to chafe and swear: — • 
< A sorry thing to hide my head 
In castle, like a fearful maid. 

When such a field is near. 
Needs must I see this battle-day; 
Death to my fame if such a fray 
Were fought, and Marmion away ! 1030 

The Douglas, too, I wot not why, 

Hath bated of his courtesy; 
No longer in his halls I '11 stay: ' 
Then bade his band they should array 
For march against the dawning day. 

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
SIXTH 

TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ. 

Mertou7t House, Christmat 

Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill; 

But let it whistle as it will. 

We '11 keep our Christmas merry still. 

Each age has deemed the new-born year 

The fittest time for festal cheer: 

Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane 

At lol more deep the mead did drain, 

High on the beach his galleys drew. 

And feasted all his pirate crew; 

Then in his low and pine-built hall, 10 

Where shields and axes decked the wall, 

They gorged upon the half-dressed steer. 

Caroused in seas of sable beer. 

While round in brutal jest were thrown 

The half -gnawed rib and marrowbone. 

Or listened all in grim delight 

While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. 

Then forth in frenzy would they hie, 

While wildly loose their red locks fly, 

And dancing round the blazing pile, 20 

They make such barbarous mirth the 

while 
As best might to the mind recall 
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall. 

And well our Christian sires of old 
Loved when the year its course had rolled, 
And brought blithe Christmas back again 
With all his hospitable train. 
Domestic and religious rite 
Gave honor to the holy night; 
On Christmas eve the bells were rung, jo 
Ou Christmas eve the mass was sung: 



138 



MARMION 



That only night in all the year 

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 

The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; 

The hall was dressed with holly green; 

Forth to the wood did merrymen go, 

To gather in the mistletoe. 

Then opened wide the baron's hall 

To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; 

Power laid his rod of rule aside, 40 

And Ceremony doffed his pride. 

The heir, with roses in his shoes, 

That night might village partner choose; 

The lord, underogating, share 

The vulgar game of * post and pair.' 

All hailed, with uncontrolled delight 

And general voice, the happy night 

That to the cottage, as the crown. 

Brought tidings of salvation down. 

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 50 
Went roaring up the chimney wide; 
The huge hall-table's oaken face. 
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace. 
Bore then upon its massive board 
No mark to part the squire and lord. 
Then was brought in the lusty brawn 
By old blue-coated serving-man; 
Then the grim boar's -head frowned on 

high, 
Crested with bays and rosemary. 
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell 60 
How, when, and where, the monster fell, 
What dogs before his death he tore, 
And all the baiting of the boar. 
The wassail round, in good brown bowls 
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. 
There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by 
Plum-porridge stood and Christmas pie; 
Nor failed old Scotland to produce 
At such high tide her savory goose. 
Then came the merry maskers in, 70 

And carols roared with blithesome din; 
If unmelodious was the song. 
It was a hearty note and strong. 
Who lists may in their mumming see 
Traces of ancient mystery; 
White shirts supplied the masquerade. 
And smutted cheeks the visors made; 
But oh ! wliat maskers, richly dight. 
Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
England was merry England when 80 

Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
'T was Christmas broached the mightiest 

ale, 
riwas Christmas told the merriest tale; 



A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
The poor man's heart through half the 
year. 

Still linger in our northern clime 
Some remnants of the good old time, 
And still within our valleys here 
We hold the kindred title dear. 
Even when, perchance, its far-fetched 
claim 90 

To Southron ear sounds empty name; 
For course of blood, our proverbs deem. 
Is warmer than the mountain-stream. 
And thus my Christmas still I hold 
Where my great-grandsire came of old, 
With amber beard and flaxen hair 
And reverent apostolic air, 
The feast and holy-tide to share. 
And mix sobriety with wine. 
And honest mirth with thoughts divine: 100 
Small thought was his, in after time 
E'er to be hitched into a rhyme. 
The simple sire could only boast 
That he was loyal to his cost. 
The banished race of kings revered. 
And lost his land, — but kept his beard. 

In these dear halls, where welcome kind 
Is with fair liberty combined. 
Where cordial friendship gives the hand. 
And flies constraint the magic wand no 
Of the fair dame that rules the land. 
Little we heed the tempest drear, 
While music, mirth, and social cheer 
Speed on their wings the passing year. 
And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now, 
When not a leaf is on the bough. 
Tweed loves them well, and turns again, 
As loath to leave the sweet domain. 
And holds his mirror to her face. 
And clips her with a close embrace: — 120 
Gladly as he we seek the dome. 
And as reluctant turn us home. 

How just that at this time of glee 
My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee ! 
For many a merry hour we 've known. 
And heard the chimes of midnight's tone. 
Cease, then, my friend ! a moment cease. 
And leave these classic tomes in peace ! 
Of Roman and of Grecian lore 
Sure mortal brain can hold no more. 130 
These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, 
* Were pretty fellows in their day,' 
But time and tide o'er all prevail — 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH 



139 



On Christmas eve a Christmas tale — 

Of wonder and of war — * Profane ! 

What ! leave the lofty Latian strain, 

Her stately prose, her verse's charms, 

To hear the clash of rusty arms; 

In Fairy-land or Limbo lost, 

To jostle conjurer and ghost, 140 

Goblin and witch ! ' — Nay, Heber dear. 

Before you touch my charter, hear; 

Though Leyden aids, alas! no more. 

My cause with many-languaged lore, 

This may I say : — in realms of death 

Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith^ 

iEneas upon Thracia's shore 

The ghost of murdered Polydore; 

For omens, we in Livy cross 

At every turn locutus Bos. 150 

As grave and duly speaks that ox 

As if he told the price of stocks, 

Or held in Rome republican 

The place of Common-councilman. 

All nations have their omens drear, 
Their legends wild of woe and fear. 
To Cambria look — the peasant see 
Bethink him of Glendowerdy 
And shun * the Spirit's Blasted Tree.' — 
The Highlander, whose red claymore 160 
The battle turned on Maida's shore, 
Will on a Friday morn look pale. 
If asked to tell a fairy tale: 
He fears the vengeful Elfin King, 
Who leaves that day his grassy ring; 
Invisible to human ken. 
He walks among the sons of men. 

Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along 
Beneath the towers of Franchemont, 
Which, like an eagle's nest in air, 170 

Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair ? 
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, 
A mighty treasure buried lay. 
Amassed through rapine and through 

wrong 
By the last Lord of Franchdmont. 
The iron chest is bolted hard, 
A huntsman sits its constant guard ; 
Around his neck his horn is hung. 
His hanger in his belt is slung; 
Before his feet his bloodhounds lie: 180 

An 't were not for his gloomy eye. 
Whose withering glance no heart can 

brook, 
As true a huntsman doth he look 



As bugle e'er in brake did sound. 

Or ever hallooed to a hound. 

To chase the fiend and win the prize 

In that same dungeon ever tries 

An aged necromantic priest; 

It is an hundred years at least 

Since 'twixt them first the strife begun, 190 

And neither yet has lost nor won. 

And oft the conjurer's words will make 

The stubborn demon groan and quake; 

And oft the bands of iron break, 

Or bursts one lock that still amain 

Fast as 't is opened, shuts again. 

That magic strife within the tomb 

May last until the day of doom. 

Unless the adept shall learn to tell 

The very word that clenched the spell 20a 

When Franch'mont locked the treasure 

cell. 
An hundred years are passed and gone, 
And scarce three letters has he won. 

Such general superstition may 
Excuse for old Pitscottie say. 
Whose gossip history has given 
My song the messenger from heaven 
That warned, in Litbgow, Scotland's king. 
Nor less the infernal summoning; 
May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 210 
Whose demon fought in Gothic mail; 
May pardon plead for Fordun grave. 
Who told of Gifeord's Goblin-Cave. 
But why such instances to you. 
Who in an instant can renew 
Your treasured hoards of various lore, 
And furnish twenty thousand more ? 
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes 

rest 
Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest. 
While gripple owners still refuse 220 

To others what they cannot use; 
Give them the priest's whole century, 
They shall not spell you letters three, — 
Their pleasure in the books the same 
The magpie takes in pilfered gem. 
Thy volumes, open as thy heart, 
Delight, amusement, science, art, 
To every ear and eye impart; 
Yet who, of all who thus employ them. 
Can like the owner's self enjoy them ? — 230 
But, hark ! I hear the distant drum ! 
The day of Flodden Field is coino, — 
Adieu, dear Heber ! life and health, 
And store of literary wealth. 



I40 



MARMION 



CANTO SIXTH 



THE BATTLE 



While great events were on the gale, 
And each hour brought a varying tale, 
And the demeanor, changed and cold, 
Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold. 
And, like the impatient steed of war. 
He snuffed the battle from afar. 
And hopes were none that back again 
Herald should come from Terouenne, 
Where England's king in leaguer lay. 
Before decisive battle-day, — lo 

While these things were, the mournful 

Clare 
Did in the dame's devotions share; 
For the good countess ceaseless prayed 
To Heaven and saints her sons to aid. 
And with short interval did pass 
From prayer to book, from book to mass, 
And all in high baronial pride, — 
A life both dull and dignified: 
Yet, as Lord Marmion nothing pressed 
Upon her intervals of rest, 20 

Dejected Clara well could bear 
The formal state, the lengthened prayer, 
Though dearest to her wounded heart 
The hours that she might spend apart. 

II 

I said Tantallon's dizzy steep 
Hung o'er the margin of the deep. 
Many a rude tower and rampart there 
Repelled the insult of the air, 
Which, when the tempest vexed the sky. 
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling 
by. 30 

Above the rest a turret square 
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear. 
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield; 
The Bloody Heart was in the field. 
And in the chief three mullets stood. 
The cognizance of Douglas blood. 
The turret held a narrow stair, 
Which, mounted, gave you access where 
A parapet's embattled row 
Did seaward round the castle go. 40 

Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, 
Sometimes in narrow circuit bending. 
Sometimes in platform broad extending. 
Its varying circle did combine 
Bulwark, and bartizan, and line, 
And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign. 



Above the booming ocean leant 

The far-projecting battlement; 

The billows burst in ceaseless flow 

Upon the precipice below. 50 

Where'er Tantallon faced the land. 

Gate - works and walls were strongly 

manned ; 
No need upon the sea-girt side: 
The steepy rock and frantic tide 
Approach of human step denied. 
And thus these lines and ramparts rude 
Were left in deepest solitude. 

Ill 

And, for they were so lonely, Clare 
Would to these battlements repair. 
And muse upon her sorrows there, 60 

And list the sea-bird's cry. 
Or slow, like noontide ghost, would 

glide 
Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side, 
And ever on the heaving tide 

Look down with weary eye. 
Oft did the cliff and swelling main 
Kecall the thoughts of Whitby's fane, — 
A home she ne'er might see again; 

For she had laid adown. 
So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, 70 

And frontlet of the cloister pale, 

And Benedictine gown: 
It were unseemly sight, he said, 
A novice out of convent shade. — 
Now her bright locks with sunny glow 
Again adorned her brow of snow; 
Her mantle rich, whose borders round 
A deep and fretted broidery bound. 
In golden foldings sought the ground; 
Of holy ornament, alone 80 

Remained a cross with ruby stone; 

And often did she look 
On that which in her hand she bore, 
With velvet bound and broidered o'er. 

Her breviary book. 
In such a place, so lone, so grim. 
At dawning pale or twilight dim, 

It fearful would have been 
To meet a form so richly dressed. 
With book in hand, and cross on breast, gi 

And such a woful mien. 
Fitz-Eustace, loiterinor with his bow, 
To practise on the gull and crow. 
Saw her at distance gliding slow, 

And did by Mary swear 
Some lovelorn fay she might have been, 
Or in romance some spell-bound queen, 



CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE 



141 



For ne'er in work-day world was seen 
A form so witching fair. 

IV 

Once walking thus at evening tide 100 

It chanced a gliding sail she spied, 

And sighing thought — * The abbess there 

Perchance does to her home repair; 

Her peaceful rule, where Duty free 

Walks hand in hand with Charity, 

Where oft Devotion's tranced glow 

Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow 

That the enraptured sisters see 

High vision and deep mystery, — 

The very form of Hilda fair, no 

Hovering upon the sunny air 

And smiling on her votaries' prayer. 

Oh ! wherefore to my duller eye 

Did still the Saint her form deny ? 

Was it that, seared by sinful scorn, 

My heart could neither melt nor burn ? 

Or lie my warm affections low 

With him that taught them first to glow ? 

Yet, gentle abbess, well I knew 

To pay thy kindness grateful due, 120 

And well could brook the mild command 

That ruled thy simple maiden band. 

How different now, condemned to bide 

My doom from this dark tyrant's pride ! — 

But Marmion has to learn ere long 

That constant mind and hate of wrong 

Descended to a feeble girl 

From Red de Clare, stout Gloster's Earl: 

Of such a stem a sapling weak. 

He ne'er shall bend, although he break. 130 



* But see ! — what makes this armor 

here?' — 
For in her path there lay 
Targe, corselet, helm; she viewed them 
near. — 

* The breastplate pierced ! — Ay, much I 

fear. 
Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's 

spear. 
That hath made fatal entrance here. 

As these dark blood-gouts say. — 
Thus Wilton ! — Oh ! not corselet's ward. 
Not truth, as diamond pure and hard. 
Could be thy manly bosom's guard 140 

On yon disastrous day ! ' — 
She raised her eyes in mournful mood, — 
Wilton himself before her stood ! 
It might have seemed his passing ghost, 



For every youthful grace was lost, 

And joy unwonted and surprise 

Gave their strange wildness to his eyes. — 

Expect not, noble dames and lords. 

That I can tell such scene in words : 

What skilful limner e'er would choose 150 

To paint the rainbow's varying hues. 

Unless to mortal it were given 

To dip his brush in dyes of heaven ? 

Far less can my weak line declare 

Each changing passion's shade: 
Brightening to rapture from despair. 
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there. 
And joy with her angelic air, 
And hope that paints the future fair, 

Their varying hues displayed; 160 

Each o'er its rival's ground extending, 
Alternate conquering, shifting, blending, 
Till all fatigued the conflict yield, 
And mighty love retains the field. 
Shortly I tell what then he said. 
By many a tender word delayed. 
And modest blush, and bursting sigh. 
And question kind, and fond reply: — 

VI 
DE WILTOn's history 

* Forget we that disastrous day 

When senseless in the lists I lay. 170 

Thence dragged, — but how I cannot 
know. 
For sense and recollection fled, — 

I found me on a pallet low 

Within my ancient beadsman's shed. 

Austin, — remember'st thou, my Clare, 
How thou didst blush when the old man. 
When first our infant love began, 

Said we would make a matchless pair ? — 
Menials and friends and kinsmen fled 
From the degraded traitor's bed, — iSo 
He only held my burning head, 
And tended me for many a day 
While wounds and fever held their sway. 
But far more needful was his care 
When sense returned to wake despair; 

For I did tear the closing wound, 

And dash me frantic on the ground. 
If e'er I heard the name of Clare. 
At length, to calmer reason brought, 
Much by his kind attendance wrouglit, i9« 

With him I loft my native strand. 
And, in a palmer's weeds arrayed. 
My liated name and form to shade, 

I journeyed many a laud, 



142 



MARMION 



No more a lord of rank and birth, 
But mingled with the dregs of earth. 

Oft Austin for my reason feared, 
When I would sit, and deeply brood 
On dark revenge and deeds of blood. 

Or wild mad schemes upreared. 200 

My friend at length fell sick, and said 

God would remove him soon; 
And while upon his dying bed 

He begged of me a boon — 
If e'er my deadliest enemy 
Beneath my brand should conquered lie, 
Even then my mercy should awake 
And spare his life for Austin's sake. 

VII 

* Still restless as a second Cain, 

To Scotland next my route was ta'en, 210 

Full well the paths I knew. 
Fame of my fate made various sound, 
That death in pilgrimage I found, 
That I had perished of my wound, — 

None cared which tale was true; 
And living eye could never guess 
De Wilton in his palmer's dress. 
For now that sable slough is shed, 
And trimmed my shaggy beard and head, 
I scarcely know me in the glass. 220 

A chance most wondrous did provide 
That I should be that baron's guide ■ — 

I will not name his name ! — 
Vengeance to God alone belongs; 
But, when I think on all my wrongs, 

My blood is liquid flame ! 
And ne'er the time shall I forget 
When, in a Scottish hostel set, 

Dark looks we did exchange: 
What were his thoughts I cannot tell, 230 
But in my bosom mustered Hell 

Its plans of dark revenge. 

VIII 

* A word of vulgar augury 

That broke from me, I scarce knew why, 

Brought on a village tale, 
Which wrought upon his moody sprite, 
And sent him armed forth by night. 

I borrowed steed and mail 
And weapons from his sleeping band ; 

And, passing from a postern door, 240 
We met and 'countered, hand to hand, — 

He fell on GifPord-moor. 
For the death-stroke my brand I drew, — 
Oh ! then my helmed head he knew. 

The palmer's cowl was gone, — 



Then had three inches of my blade 
The heavy debt of vengeance paid, — 
My hand the thought of Austin stayed; 

I left him there alone. — 
O good old man ! even from the grave 250 
Thy spirit could thy master save : 
If I had slain my foeman, ne'er 
Had Whitby's abbess in her fear 
Given to my hand this packet dear. 
Of power to clear my injured fame 
And vindicate De Wilton's name. — 
Perchance you heard the abbess tell 
Of the strange pageantry of hell 

That broke our secret speech — 
It rose from the infernal shade, 260 

Or featly was some juggle played, 

A tale of peace to teach. 
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best 
When my name came among the rest. 

IX 

* Now here within Tantallon hold 

To Douglas late my tale I told, 

To whom my house was known of old. 

Won by my proofs, his falchion bright 

This eve anew shall dub me knight. 

These were the arms that once did turn 270 

The tide of fight on Otterburne, 

And Harry Hotspur forced to yield 

When the Dead Douglas won the field. 

These Angus gave — his armorer's care 

Ere morn shall every breach repair; 

For nought, he said, was in his halls 

But ancient armor on the walls. 

And aged chargers in the stalls. 

And women, priests, and gray - haired 

men; 
The rest were all in Twisel glen. 280 

And now I watch my armor here, 
By law of arms, till midnight 's near; 
Then, once again a belted knight. 
Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light. 



* There soon again we meet, my Clare ! 
This baron means to guide thee there: 
Douglas reveres his king's command, 
Else would he take thee from his band. 
And there thy kinsman Surrey, too. 
Will give De Wilton justice due. 290 

Now meeter far for martial broil. 
Firmer my limbs and strung by toil, 
Once more ' — * O Wilton ! must we then 
Risk new-found happiness again. 
Trust fate of arms once more ? 



CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE 



143 



And is there not an humble glen 

Where we, content and poor, 
Might build a cottage in the shade, 
A shepherd thou, and I to aid 

Thy task on dale and moor ? — 300 

That reddening brow ! — too well I know 
Not even thy Clare can peace bestow 

While falsehood stains thy name: 
Go then to fight ! Clare bids thee go ! 
Clare can a warrior's feelings know 

And weep a warrior's shame, 
Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, 
Buckle the spurs upon thy heel 
And belt thee with thy brand of steel, 

And send thee forth to fame ! ' 310 

XI 

That night upon the rocks and bay 
The midnight moonbeam slumbering lay, 
And poured its silver light and pure 
Through loophole and through embra- 
sure 

Upon Tantallon tower and hall; 
But chief where arched windows wide 
Illuminate the chapel's pride 

The sober glances fall. 
Much was there need; though seamed with 

scars. 
Two veterans of the Douglas' wars, 320 

Though two gray priests were there, 
And each a blazing torch held high. 
You could not by their blaze descry 

The chapel's carving fair. 
Amid that dim and smoky light. 
Checkering the silvery moonshine bright, 

A bishop by the altar stood, 

A noble lord of Douglas blood. 
With mitre sheen and rochet white. 329 

Yet showed his meek and thoughtful eye 
But little pride of prelacy; 
More pleased that in a barbarous age 
He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page 
Than that beneath his rule he held 
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. 
Beside him ancient Angus stood. 
Doffed his furred gown and sable hood; 
O'er his huge form and visage pale 
He wore a cap and shirt of mail, 339 

And leaned his large and wrinkled hand 
Upon the huge and sweeping brand 
Which wont of yore in battle fray 
His foeman's limbs to shred away, 
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray. 

He seemed as, from the tombs around 
Rising at judgment-day. 



Some giant Douglas may be found 
In all his old array; 
So pale his face, so huge his limb, 
So old his arms, his look so grim. 350 

XII 

Then at the altar Wilton kneels. 
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels; 
And think what next he must have felt 
At buckling of the falchion belt ! 

And judge how Clara changed her hue 
While fastening to her lover's side 
A friend, which, though in danger tried. 

He once had found untrue ! 
Then Douglas struck him with his blade: 

* Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 360 

I dub thee knight. 
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir ! 
For king, for church, for lady fair. 

See that thou fight.' 
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose. 
Said: * Wilton ! grieve not for thy woes, 

Disgrace, and trouble; 
For He who honor best bestows 

May give thee double.' 
De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must: 

* Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust 

That Douglas is my brother ! ' 

* Nay, nay,' old Angus said, * not so; 
To Surrey's camp thou now must go, 

Thy wrongs no longer smother. 
I have two sons in yonder field; 
And, if thou meet'st them under shield, 
Upon them bravely — do thy worst. 
And foul fall him that blenches first ! ' 



370 



XIII 



38c 



Not far advanced was morning day 
When Marmion did his troop array 

To Surrey's camp to ride; 
He had safe-conduct for his band 
Beneath the royal seal and hand. 

And Douglas gave a guide. 
The ancient earl with stately grace 
Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
And whispered in an undertone, 

* Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.' 
The train from out the castle drew, 390 
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: 

* Though something I might plain,' he 
said, 

* Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your king's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I stayed. 
Part we in friendship from your land, 



144 



MARMION 



And, noble earl, receive my hand.* — 
But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: — 399 

* My manors, halls, and bowers shall still 
Be open at my sovereign's will 

To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
My castles are my king's alone, 
From turret to foundation-stone — 
The hand of Douglas is his own, 
And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.' 

XIV 
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire 
And shook his very frame for ire, 410 

And — * This to me ! ' he said, 

* An 't were not for thy hoary beani, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
And first I tell thee, haughty peer, 
He who does England's message here, 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate; 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 420 

Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, — 
Nay, never look upon your lord. 
And lay your hands upon your sword, "-- 

I tell thee, thou 'rt defied ! 
And if thou saidst I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! ' 
On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age: 430 

Fierce he broke forth, — * And darest thou 

then 
To beard the lion in his den, 

The Douglas in his hall ? 
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? — 
No, by Saint Bride of Both well, no ! 
Up drawbridge, grooms — what, warder, ho ! 

Let the portcullis fall.' — 
Lord Marmion turned, — well was his 

need, — 
And dashed the rowels in his steed, 439 

Like arrow through the archway sprung. 
The ponderous grate behind him rung; 
To pass there was such scanty room, 
The bars descending razed his plume. 



The steed along the drawbridge flies 
Just as it trembled on the rise; 



Not lighter does the swallow skim 

Along the smooth lake's level brim: 

And when Lord Marmion reached his 

band. 
He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 
And shout of loud defiance pours, 450 

And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 

* Horse ! horse ! ' the Douglas cried, * and 

chase ! ' 
But soon he reined his fury's pace : 

* A royal messenger he came, 
Though most unworthy of the name. — 
A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed ! 
Did ever knight so foul a deed ? 

At first in heart it liked me ill 

When the king praised his clerkly skill. 

Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 460 

Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line; 

So swore I, and I swear it still, 

Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 

Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! 

Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 

I thought to slay him where he stood. 

'T is pity of him too,' he cried: 

* Bold can he speak and fairly ride, 
I warrant him a warrior tried.' 

With this his mandate he recalls, 470 

And slowly seeks his castle halls. 

XVI 

The day in Marmion's journey wore; 
Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er. 
They crossed the heights of Stanrig-moor. 
His troop more closely there he scanned, 
And missed the Palmer from the band. 

* Palmer or not,' young Blount did say, 

* He parted at the peep of day; 
Good sooth, it was in strange array.' 

* In what array ? ' said Marmion quick. 480 

* My lord, I ill can spell the trick ; 
But all night long with clink and bang 
Close to my couch did hammers clang; 
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, 
And from a loophole while I peep, 
Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep, 
Wrapped in a gown of sables fair. 

As fearful of the morning air; 
Beneath, when that was blown aside, 
A rusty shirt of mail I spied, 49c 

By Archibald won in bloody work 
Against the Saracen and Turk: 
Last night it hung not in the hall; 
I thought some marvel would befall. 
And next I saw them saddled lead 
Old Cheviot forth, the earl's best steed. 



CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE 



145 



A matchless horse, though something old, 

Prompt in his paces, cool and bold. 

I heard the Sheriff Sholto say 

The earl did much the Master pray 500 

To use him on the battle-day, 

But he preferred ' — * Nay, Henry, cease ! 

Thou sworn horse - courser, hold thy 

peace. — 
Eustace, thou bear'st a brain — I pray. 
What did Blount see at break of day ? ' — 

XVII 

* In brief, my lord, we both descried — 
For then I stood by Henry's side — 
The Palmer mount and outwards ride 

Upon the earl's own favorite steed. 
All sheathed he was in armor bright, 510 
And much resembled that same knight 
Subdued by you in Cots wold fight; 

Lord Angus wished him speed. ' — 
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, 
A sudden light on Marmion broke : — 

* Ah ! dastard fool, to reason lost ! ' 

He muttered ; * 'T was nor fay nor ghost 
I met upon the moonlight wold. 
But living man of earthly mould. 

O dotage blind and gross ! 520 

Had I but fought as wont, one thrust 
Had laid De Wilton in the dust, 

My path no more to cross. — 
How stand we now ? — he told his tale 
To Douglas, and with some avail ; 

'T was therefore gloomed his rugged 
brow. — 
Will Surrey dare to entertain 
'Gainst Marmion charge disproved and 
vain ? 

Small risk of that, I trow. 529 

Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun. 
Must separate Constance from the nun — 
Oh ! what a tangled web we weave 
When first we practise to deceive ! 
A Palmer too I — no wonder why 
I felt rebuked beneath his eye; 
I might have known there was but one 
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.' 

XVIII 

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to 

speed 
His troop, and reached at eve the Tweed, 
Where Lennel's convent closed their 

march. 540 

There now is left but one frail arch, 
Yet mourn thou not its cells; 



Our time a fair exchange has made; 
Hard by, in hospitable shade, 

A reverend pilgrim dwells, 
Well worth the whole Bernardine brood 
That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood. — 
Yet did Saint Bernard's abbot there 
Give Marmion entertainment fair. 
And lodging for his train and Clare. 550 
Next morn the baron climbed the tower, 
To view afar the Scottish power, 

Encamped on Flodden edge; 
The white pavilions made a show 
Like remnants of the winter snow 

Along the dusky ridge. 
Long Marmion looked : — at length his eye 
Unusual movement might descry 

Amid the shifting lines ; 
The Scottish host drawn out appears, 560 
For, flashing on the hedge of spears. 

The eastern sunbeam shines. 
Their front now deepening, now extending. 
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, 
Now drawing back, and now descending, 
The skilful Marmion well could know 
They watched the motions of some foe 
Who traversed on the plain below. 

XIX 
Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 

The Scots beheld the English host 570 

Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post. 

And heedful watched them as they 
crossed 
The Till by Twisel Bridge. 

High sight it is and haughty, while 

They dive into the deep defile ; 

Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, 

Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree, 

Troop after troop are disappearing; 

Troop after troop their banners rear- 
ing 5S0 
Upon the eastern bank you see ; 
Still pouring down the rocky den 

Where flows the sullen Till, 
And rising from the dim- wood glen, 
Standards on standards, men on men. 

In slow succession still, 
And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
And pressing on, in ceaseless march. 

To gain the opposing hill. 
That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 590 
Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang, 
And many a chief of birth and rank. 
Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 



146 



MARMION 



Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see 
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly, 
Had then from many an axe its doom, 
To give the marching columns room. 

XX 

And why stands Scotland idly now, 
Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow. 
Since England gains the pass the while, 600 
And struggles through the deep defile ? 
What checks the fiery soul of James ? 
Why sits that champion of the dames 

Inactive on his steed, 
And sees, between him and his land, 
Between him and Tweed's southern strand. 

His host Lord Surrey lead ? 
What vails the vain knight - errant's 

brand ? — 
O Douglas, for thy leading wand ! 

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! 610 

Oh ! for one hour of Wallace wight. 
Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight 
And cry, * Saint Andrew and our right I ' 
Another sight had seen that morn, 
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn. 
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne ! — 
The precious hour has passed in vain, 
And England's host has gained the plain. 
Wheeling their march and circling still 
Around the base of Flodden hill. 620 

XXI 

Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, 
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 
* Hark ! hark ! my lord, an English drum ! 
And see ascending squadrons come 

Between Tweed's river and the hill, 
Foot, horse, and cannon ! Hap what hap, 
My basnet to a prentice cap. 

Lord Surrey 's o'er the Till ! — 
Yet more ! yet more ! — how fair arrayed 
They file from out the hawthorn shade, 630 

And sweep so gallant by ! 
With all their banners bravely spread, 

And all their armor flashing high. 
Saint George might waken from the dead, 

To see fair England's standards fly.' — 
^ Stint in thy prate,' quoth Blount, *thou 'dst 

best, 
And listen to our lord's behest.' — 
With kindling brow Lord Marmion said, 
*This instant be our band arrayed; 
Tlie river must be quickly crossed, 640 

That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
If fight King James, — as well I trust 



That fight he will, and fight he must, — 
The Lady Clare behind our lines 
Shall tarry while the battle joins.' 

XXII 

Himself he swift on horseback threw. 
Scarce to the abbot bade adieu, 
Far less would listen to his prayer 
To leave behind the helpless Clare. 
Down to the Tweed his band he drew, 650 
And muttered as the flood they view, 
' The pheasant in the falcon's claw. 
He scarce will yield to please a daw; 
Lord Angus may the abbot awe. 

So Clare shall bide with me.' 
Then on that dangerous ford and deep 
Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies creep, 

He ventured desperately: 
And not a moment will he bide 
Till squire or groom before him ride; 660 
Headmost of all he stems the tide, 

And stems it gallantly. 
Eustace held Clare upon her horse. 

Old Hubert led her rein. 
Stoutly they braved the current's course. 
And, though far downward driven perforce, 

The southern bank they gain. 
Behind them straggling came to shore. 

As best they might, the train: 
Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 67c 

A caution not in vain; 
Deep need that day that every string. 
By wet unharmed, should sharply ring. 
A moment then Lord Marmion stayed, 
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed, 

Then forward moved his band. 
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, 
He halted by a cross of stone. 
That on a hillock standing lone 

Did all the field command. 680 

XXIII 

Hence might they see the full array ^i 

Of either host for deadly fray; ^' 

Their marshalled lines stretched east and 
west. 

And fronted north and south. 
And distant salutation passed 

From the loud cannon mouth; 
Not in the close successive rattle 
That breathes the voice of modern battle. 

But slow and far between. 
The hillock gained. Lord Marmion stayed: 
*Here, by this cross,' he gently said, 691 

* You well may view the scene. 



CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE 



147 



Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: 
Oh ! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — 
Thou wilt not ? — well, no less my care 
Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare. — 
You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, 

With ten picked archers of my train; 
With England if the day go hard, 

To Berwick speed amain. — 700 

But if we conquer, cruel maid. 
My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 

When here we meet again.' 
He waited not for answer there, 
And would not mark the maid's despair, 

Nor heed the discontented look 
From either squire, but spurred amain, 
A id, dashing through the battle-plain, 

His way to Surrey took. 

XXIV 

* The good Lord Marmion, by my life ! 710 

Welcome to danger's hour ! — 
Short greeting serves in time of strife. — 

Thus have I ranged my power: 
Myself will rule this central host. 

Stout Stanley fronts their right. 
My sons command the vaward post. 

With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight; 

Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light. 

Shall be in rearward of the fight. 
And succor those that need it most. 720 

Now, gallant Marmion, well I know, 

Would gladly to the vanguard go; 
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there. 
With thee their charge will blithely share; 
There fight thine own retainers too 
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.' 

* Thanks, noble Surrey ! ' Marmion said. 
Nor further greeting there he paid. 
But, parting like a thunderbolt. 

First in the vanguard made a halt, 730 

Where such a shout there rose 
Of * Marmion ! Marmion ! ' that the cry. 
Up Flodden mountain shrilling high. 
Startled the Scottish foes. 

XXV 

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
With Lady Clare upon the hill. 
On which — for far the day was spent — 
The western sunbeams now were bent; 
The cry they heard, its meaning knew, 

1 Could plain their distant comr/ides view: 740 
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 

' • Unworthy office here to stay ! 

1 No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — 



But see ! look up — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent.' 

And sudden, as he spoke, 
From the sharp ridges of the hill. 
All downward to the banks of Till, 

Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and vast, and rolling far, 750 

The cloud enveloped Scotland's war 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. 
Announced their march; their tread alone, 
At times one warning trumpet blown, 

At times a stifled hum. 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 

King James did rushing come. 
Scarce could they hear or see their foes 
Until at weapon-point they close. — 760 
They close in clouds of smoke and dust, 
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; 

And such a yell was there. 
Of sudden and portentous birth. 
As if men fought upon the earth. 

And fiends in upper air: 
Oh ! life and death were in the shout, 
Kecoil and rally, charge and rout. 

And triumph and despair. 769 

Long looked the anxious squires ; their 

eye 
Could in the darkness nought descry. 

XXVI 

At length the freshening western blast 

Aside the shroud of battle cast; 

And first the ridge of mingled spears 

Above the brightening cloud appears, 

And in the smoke the pennons flew. 

As in the storm the white seamew. 

Then marked they, dashing broad and far. 

The broken billows of the war. 

And plumed crests of chieftains brave 7S0 

Floating like foam upon the wave; 

But nought distinct they see: 
Wide raged the bfittle on the plain; 
Spears shook and falchions flashed amain; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; 
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again. 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly; 
And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 79a 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright, 
Still bear them bravely in the fight, 

Altliough against them come 
Of gallant (lordons many a one, 
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man. 



148 



MARMION 



And many a rugged Border clan, 
With Huntly and with Home. — 

XXVII 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle, 
Though there the western mountaineer 800 
Kushed with bare bosom on the spear. 
And flung the feeble targe aside, 
And with both hands the broadsword plied. 
'T was vain. — But Fortune, on the right, 
With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white, 

The Howard's lion fell; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 810 

The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry: 

Loud were the clanging blows; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now 
high, 

The pennon sunk and rose; 
As bends the bark's-mast in the gale. 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 

It wavered mid the foes. 
No longer Blount the view could bear: 
* By heaven and all its saints ! I swear 820 

I will not see it lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
May bid your beads and patter prayer, — 

I gallop to the host.' 
And to the fray he rode amain. 
Followed by all the archer train. 
The fiery youth, with desperate charge. 
Made for a space an opening large, — 

The rescued banner rose, — 
But darkly closed the war around, 830 

Like pine-tree rooted from the ground 

It sank among the foes. 
Then Eustace mounted too, — yet stayed. 
As loath to leave the helpless maid. 

When, fast as shaft can fly, 
^ Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
The loose rein dangling from his head. 
Housing and saddle bloody red, 

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by; 
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 840 

A look and sign to Clara cast 

To mark he would return in haste, 
Then plunged into the fight. 

XXVIII 

Ask me not what the maiden feels. 
Left in that dreadful hour alone: 



Perchance her reason stoops or reels ; 
Perchance a courage, not her own. 
Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 
The scattered van of England wheels; — 
She only said, as loud in air 850 

The tumult roared, * Is Wilton there ? ' -^ 
They fly, or, maddened by despair, 
Fight but to die, — ' Is Wilton there ? ' 
With that, straight up the hill there rode 

Two horsemen drenched with gore. 
And in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand still strained the broken brand ; 
His arms were smeared with blood and 

sand. 
Dragged from among the horses' feet, 860 
With dinted shield and helmet beat. 
The falcon-crest and plumage gone. 
Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . • 
Young Blount his armor did unlace. 
And, gazing on his ghastly face, 

Said, * By Saint George, he 's gone ! 
That spear-wound has our master sped, 
And see the deep cut on his head ! 

Good-night to Marmion.' — 869 

'Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling cease: 
He opes his eyes,' said Eustace; * peace ! ' 

XXIX 

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, 

Around gan Marmion wildly stare: 

* Where 's Harry Blount ? Fitz - Eustace 

where ? 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! 
Cry, " Marmion to the rescue ! " — Vain ! 
Last of my race, on battle-plain 
That shout sball ne'er be heard again ! — 
Yet my last thought is England's — fly, 880 

To Dacre bear my signet-ring; 

Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — 
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie: 

Tunstall lies dead upon the field. 

His lifeblood stains the spotless shield; 

Edmund is down; my life is reft; 

The Admiral alone is left. 
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — 
With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
Full upon Scotland's central host, 890 

Or victory and England 's lost. — 
Must I bid twice? — hence, varlets! fly! — 

Leave Marmion here alone — to die.' 

They parted, and alone he lay; 

Clare drew her from the sight away. 
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 



CANTO SIXTH: THE BATTLE 



149 



And half he murmured, * Is there none 

Of all my halls have nurst, 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed water from the spring, 900 

To slake my dying thirst ! ' 

XXX 

O Woman ! in our hours of ease 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made; 
When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou ! — 
Scarce were the piteous accents said. 
When with the baron's casque the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran: 910 

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stooped her by the runnel's side. 

But in abhorrence backward drew; 
For, oozing from the mountain's side 
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where shall she turn ? — behold her mark 

A little fountain cell, 920 

Where water, clear as diamond spark, 

In a stone basin fell. 
Above, some half-worn letters say, 
^nnfi. ttjcar)?. pilodm. tJrinli. anti^ prajo. 
ifor. tit. ftinD. ^ml of. fibril ^Brep. 

I©{)0. liurtt. tfti^. cro^i^. anlr. ttjeH. 
She filled the helm and back she hied, 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A monk supporting Marmion's head ; 
A pious man, whom duty brought 930 

To dubious verge of battle fought, 

To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 

XXXI 

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 
And, as she stooped his brow to lave — 

* Is it the hand of Clare,' he said, 

* Or injured Constance, bathes my head ? ' 

Then, as remembrance rose, — 

* Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 

I must redress her woes. 939 

Short space, few words, are mine to spare; 
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! ' — 

* Alas ! ' she said, * the while, — 
Oh ! think of your immortal weal ! 
In vain for Constance is your zeal; 

She — died at Holy Isle.' — 
Lord Marmi( J*^^ arted from the ground 
As light as '*^ ^a"^1' 110 wound, 



Though in the action burst the tide 

In torrents from his wounded side. 949 

* Then it was truth,' he said — * I knew 
That the dark presage must be true. — 
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 

Would spare me but a day! 
For wasting fire, and dying groan. 
And priests slain on the altar stone. 

Might bribe him for delay. 
It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
Curse on yon base marauder's lance. 
And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 960 
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.' 
Then fainting down on earth he sunk, 
Supported by the trembling monk. 

XXXII 

With fruitless labor Clara bound 
And strove to stanch the gushing wound; 
The monk with unavailing cares 
Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 
Ever, he said, that, close and near, 
A lady's voice was in his ear. 
And that the priest he could not hear; 970 
For that she ever sung, 

* In the lost battle, borne down by tJie flying, 
Where mingles war^s rattle with groans of the 

dying ! ' 
So the notes rung. — 

* Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand 
Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — 
Oh ! look, my son, upon yon sign 

Of the Redeemer's grace divine; 

Oh ! think on faith and bliss ! — 
By many a death-bed I have been, 980 

And many a sinner's parting seen, 

' But never aught like this.' — 
The war, that for a space did fail, 
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale. 

And * Stanley ! ' was the cry. — 
A light on Marmion's visage spread. 

And fired his glazing eye; 
With dying hand above his head 
He shook the fragment of his blade. 

And shouted * Victory ! — 99a 

Charge, Chester, charge 1 On, Stanley, 

on ! ' 
Were the last words of Marmion. 

XXXIII 
By this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
For still the Scots around their king, 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 



ISO 



MARMION 



Where 's now their victor vaward wing, 

Where Huntley, and where Home ? — 
Oh ! for a blast of that dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne, looo 

That to King Charles did come. 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer. 

On Roncesvalles died ! 
Such blasts might warn them, not in vain, 
To quit the plunder of the slain 
And turn the doubtful day again, 

While yet on Flodden side 
Afar the Royal Standard flies. 
And round it toils and bleeds and dies loio 

Our Caledonian pride ! 
In vain the wish — for far away, 
While spoil and havoc mark their way, 
Near SibyFs Cross the plunderers stray. — 
* O lady,' cried the monk, * away ! ' 

And placed her on her steed, 
And led her to the chapel fair 

Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. 
There all the night they spent in prayer, 
And at the dawn of morning there 1020 

She met her kinsman. Lord Fitz-Clare. 

XXXIV 

But as they left the darkening heath 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 
The English shafts in volleys hailed. 
In headlong charge their horse assailed; 
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep 
To break the Scottish circle deep 
That fought around their king. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
Though charging knights like whirlwinds 

go, 1030 

Though billmen ply the ghastly blow. 

Unbroken was the ring; 
The stubborn spearmen still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood. 
Each stepping where his comrade stood 

The instant that he fell. 
No thought was there of dastard flight; 
Linked in the serried phalanx tight, 
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight. 

As fearlessly and well, 1040 

Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded king. 
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands 
Led back from strife his shattered bands; 

And from the charge they drew, 
As mountain-waves from wasted lands 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Then did their loss his foemen know; 



Their king, their lords, their mightiest 

low. 
They melted from the field, as snow, 1050 
When streams are swoln and southwinds 
blow. 

Dissolves in silent dew. 
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, 

While many a broken band 
Disordered through her currents dash, 

To gain the Scottish land; 
To town and tower, to down and dale, 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale. 
And raise the universal wail. 
Tradition, legend, tune, and song 1060 

Shall many an age that wail prolong; 
Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife and carnage drear 

Of Flodden's fatal field. 
Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear 

And broken was her shield ! 

XXXV 

Day dawns upon the mountain's side. — 
There, Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride, 
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one; 
The sad survivors all are gone. — 1070 

View not that corpse mistrustfully, 
Defaced and mangled though it be; 
Nor to yon Border castle high 
Look northward with upbraiding eye; 

Nor cherish hope in vain 
That, journeying far on foreign strand, 
The Royal Pilgrim to his land 

May yet return again. 
He saw the wreck his rashness wrought; 
Reckless of life, he desperate fought, 1080 

And fell on Flodden plain: 
And well in death his trusty brand, 
Firm clenched within his manly hand, 

Beseemed the monarch slain. 
But oh ! how changed since yon blithe 

night ! — 
Gladly I turn me from the sight 

Unto my tale again. 



XXXVI 



4 



Short is my tale: — Fitz-Eustace' care 

A pierced and mangled body bare 

To moated Lichfield's lofty pile; 1090 

And there, beneath the southern aisle, 

A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair 

Did long Lord Marmion's image bear. — 

Now vainly for its site you loi3k,' 

'T was levelled when faratie slrook 

The fair cathedral sto'. .i lowly took, 



UENVOY 



151 



But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint 

Chad, 
A guerdon meet the spoiler had ! — 
There erst was martial Marmion found, 
His feet upon a couchant hound, noo 

His hands to heaven upraised; 
And all around, on scutcheon rich, 
And tablet carved, and fretted niche, 

His arms and feats were blazed. 
And yet, though all was carved so fair. 
And priest for Marmion breathed the 

prayer. 
The last Lord Marmion lay not there. 
From Ettrick woods a peasant swain 
Followed his lord to Flodden plain, — 
One of those flowers whom plaintive lay mo 
In Scotland mourns as * wede away:' 
Sore wounded, Sibyl's Cross he spied. 
And dragged him to its foot, and died 
Close by the noble Marmion's side. 
The spoilers stripped and gashed the slain. 
And thus their corpses were mistaken; 
And thus in the proud baron's tomb 
The lowly woodsman took the room. 

XXXVII 

Less easy task it were to show 

Lord Marmion's nameless grave and low. 

They dug his grave e'en where he lay, 1121 

But every mark is gone: 
Time's wasting hand has done away 
The simple Cross of Sibyl Grey, 

And broke her font of stone ; 
But yet from out the little hill 
Oozes the slender springlet still. 

Oft halts the stranger there. 
For thence may best his curious eye 
The memorable field descry; 1130 

And shepherd boys repair 
To seek the water-flag and rush, 
And rest them by the hazel bush, 

And plait their garlands fair. 
Nor dream they sit upon the grave 
That holds the bones of Marmion brave. — 
When thou shalt find the little hill, 
With thy heart commune and be still. 
If ever in temptation strong 
Thou left'st the right path for the 
wrong, 1 140 

If every devious step thus trod 
Still led thee further from the road, 
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom 
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb; 
But say, * He died a gallant knight, 
f With sword in hand, for Enghmd's right.' 



XXXVIII 

I do not rhyme to that dull elf 

Who cannot image to himself 

That all through Flodden 's dismal night 

Wilton was foremost in the fight, 1150 

That when brave Surrey's steed was slain 

'T was Wilton mounted him again; 

'T was Wilton's brand that deepest hewed 

Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood: 

Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall, 

He was the living soul of all; 

That, after fight, his faith made plain. 

He won his rank and lands again. 

And charged his old paternal shield 

With bearings won on Flodden Field. 1160 

Nor sing I to that simple maid 

To whom it must in terms be said 

That king and kinsmen did agree 

To bless fair Clara's constancy; 

Who cannot, unless I relate. 

Paint to her mind the bridal's state, — 

That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke. 

More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke; 

That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 1169 

And Katherine's hand the stocking threw; 

And afterwards, for many a day, 

That it was held enough to say, 

In blessing to a wedded pair, 

' Love they like Wilton and like Clare ! ' 

L'ENVOY 

TO THE READER 

Why then a final note prolong, 

Or lengthen out a closing song, 

Unless to bid the gentles speed, 

Who long have listed to my rede ? 

To statesmen grave, if such may deign 

To read the minstrel's idle strain, 

Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit, 

And patriotic heart — as Pitt ! 

A garland for the hero's crest, 

And twined by her he loves the best ! 

To every lovely lady bright, 

What can I wish but faithful knight ? 

To every faithful lover too, 

What can I wish but lady true ? 

And knowledge to the studious sage, 

And pillow soft to head of age ! 

To thee, dear school-boy, wliom my lay 

Has cheated of thy hour of play, 

Light task and merry holiday ! 

To all, to each, a fair good-night. 

And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light I 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



The Lady of the Lake, Scott says, was a very 
sudden thought. It was beg-un in the fall of 
1809, when Marmion had enjoyed a year and a 
half of popularity. ' The first hundred lines,' 
he writes to Lady Abercorn, ' were written, I 
think, in October, 1809, and the first canto was 
sent to your Ladyship in Ireland so soon as it 
was complete, and you were the first who saw 
them, excepting one friend and the printer, 
Mr. Ballantyne, who is a great critic as well as 
an excellent printer. I have been always, 
God help me, too poor and too impatient to 
let my poems lie by me for years, or for 
months either ; on the contrary, they have 
hitherto been always sent to the press before 
they were a third part finished. This is, to be 
sure, a very reprehensible practice in many 
respects, and I hope I shall get the better of 
it the next time.' 

He had by this time separated from Consta- 
ble and made Ballantyne's interests his own. 
In his ' Introduction ' given below, Scott details 
in lively fashion the effect which the reading 
of the poem, while in course of composition, 
had upon the friend who started in to ' heeze 
up his hope.' Lockhart quotes also from the 
recollection of Robert Cadell an account of 
the interest excited by the poem before it 
was published. * James Ballantyne read the 
cantos from time to time to select coteries, as 
they advanced at press. Common fame was 
loud in their favor ; a great poem was on all 
hands anticipated. I do not recollect that any 
of all the author's works was ever looked for 
with more intense anxiety, or that any one of 
them excited a more extraordinary sensation 
when it did appear. The whole country rang 
with the praises of the poet — crowds set off 
to view the scenery of Loch Katrine, till then 
comparatively unknown ; and as the book 
came out just before the season for excursions, 
every house and inn in that neighborhood was 
crammed with a constant succession of visitors.' 

* I have tried,' writes Scott to Lady Abercorn, 

* according to promise, to make " a knight of 
love who never broke a vow." But welladay, 
though I have succeeded tolerably with the 
damsel, my lover, spite of my best exertions, 
is like to turn out what the players call a 
walking gentleman. It is incredible the pains 
it has cost me to give him a little dignity.' 
And then follows this curious and rueful re- 
flection, * Notwithstanding this, I have had 



in my time melancholy cause to paint from 
experience, for I gained no advantage from 
three years' constancy, except the said experi- 
ence and some advantage to my conversation 
and manners. Mrs. Scott's match and mine 
was of our own making, and proceeded from 
the most sincere affection on both sides, which 
has rather increased than diminished during 
twelve years' marriage. But it was something 
short of love in all its forms, which I suspect 
people onljfeel once in their lives ; folks who 
have been nearly drowned in bathing rarely 
venturing a second time out of their depth.' 
In a later letter written to the same lady, he 
returns to the subject, which plainly gave him 
some uneasiness. ' As for my lover, I find 
with deep regret that, however interesting 
lovers are to each other, it is no easy matter 
to render them generally interesting. There 
was, however, another reason for keeping 
Malcolm Graeme's character a little under, as 
the painters say, for it must otherwise have 
interfered with that of the king, which I was 
more anxious to bring forward in splendor, op 
something like it.' 

Once again, in a letter to Miss Smith, who 
took the part of Ellen in a dramatization of the 
poem, he wrote : ' You must know this Mal- 
colm Graeme was a great plague to me from 
the beginning. You ladies can hardly com- 
prehend how very stupid lovers are to every- 
body but mistresses. I gave him that dip in 
the lake by way of making him do something ; 
but wet or dry I could make nothing of him. 
His insignificance is the greatest defect among 
many others in the poem ; but the canvas was 
not broad enough to include him, considering 
I had to group the king, Roderick, and Doug- 
las.' 

On another point, Scott had been criticised 
by his vigilant friend Morritt. * The only dis- 
appointment,' writes Morritt, *I felt in the 
poem is your own fault. The character and 
terrific birth of Brian is so highly wrought 
that I expected him to appear again in the d^* 
nouement, and wanted to hear something more 
of him ; but as we do not hear of his death, 
it is your own fault for introducing us to an 
acquaintance of so much promise and not tell- 
ing us how he was afterwards disposed of.' 
To this Scott replied : ' Your criticism is quite 
just as to the Son of the dry bone, Brian. 
Truth is, I had intended the battle should 



152 



AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 



153 



have been more detailed, and that some of the 
persons mentioned in the third canto, and 
Brian in particular, should have been commem- 
orated. I intended he should have been shot 
like a corbie on a craig as he was excommu- 
nicating and anathematizing the Saxons from 
some of the predominant peaks in the Trosachs. 
But I found the battle in itself too much dis- 
placed to admit of being prolonged by any de- 
tails which could be spared. For it was in the 
first place episodical^ and then all the princi- 
pal characters had been disposed of before it 
came on, and were absent at the time of action, 
and nothing hinged upon the issue of conse- 
quence to the fable. So I e'en left it to the 
judgment of my reader whether Brian was 
worried in the Trosachs, or escaped to take 
earth in his old retreat in Benharrow, near 
Ardkinlas.' 

The Lady of the Lake came out early in 
May, 1810, and its popularity is shown by the 
haste with which the dramatists laid hold of 
it, three separate versions being attempted. 
* That Mr. Siddons is bringing it out,' Scott 
writes to the actress. Miss Smith, * is very cer- 
tain, but it is equally so that I have not seen 
and do not intend to see a line of it, because I 
would not willingly have the public of this 
place [Edinburgh] suppose that I was in any 
degree responsible for the success of the piece ; 
it would be like submitting to be twice tried 
for the same offence. My utmost knowledge 
has been derived from chatting with Mrs. Sid- 
dons and Mrs. Young in the green-room, where 
I have been an occasional lounger since our 
company has been put on a respectable foot- 
ing. . . . Whether the dialogue is in verse or 
prose I really do not know. There is a third 
Lady of the Lake on the tapis at Covent Gar- 
den, dramatized by no less genius than the 
united firm of Reynolds and Morton. But 



though I have these theatrical grandchildren, 
as I may call them, I have seen none of them. 
I shall go to the Edinburgh piece when it is 
rehearsed with lights and scenes, and if I see 
anything that I think worth your adopting I 
will write to you. The strength will probably 
lie in the dumb show, music and decorations, 
for I have no idea that the language can be 
rendered very dramatic. If any person can 
make aught of it, I am sure you will. The 
mad Lowland captive if well played, should, I 
think, answer. I wish I could give you an 
idea of the original, whom I really saw in the 
Pass of Glencoe many years ago. It is one of 
the wildest and most tremendous passes in the 
Highlands, winding through huge masses of 
rock without a pile of verdure, and between 
mountains that seem rent asunder by an 
earthquake. This poor woman had placed 
herself in the wildest attitude imaginable, 
upon the very top of one of these huge frag- 
ments ; she had scarce any covering but a tat- 
tered plaid, which left her arms, legs, and 
neck bare to the weather. Her long shaggy 
black hair was streaming backwards in the 
wind, and exposed a face rather wild and 
wasted than ugly, and bearing a very peculiar 
expression of frenzy. She had a handful of 
eagle's feathers in her hand. . . . The lady 
who plays this part should beware of singing 
with too stiff regularity ; even her music, or 
rather her style of singing it, should be a little 
mad.' 

Scott summed up his own analysis of the 
three long poems thus far published, when he 
wrote in 1812 : * The force in the Lay is 
thrown on style ; in Marmion, on description, 
and in The Lady of the Lake, on incident.' 
When reissuing the poem in the collective 
edition of 1830, he prefixed the following 



INTRODUCTION. 



After the success of Marmion^ 1 felt inclined 
to exclaim with Ulysses in the Odyssey : — 

OuT09 /u,ei/ St) ae^Ao? aaaro? €»CT€Te'Ae(rTat' 
Nvi' aJfTS (TKonou aAAoi^. 

Odys. X. 5. 

* One venturous game my hand has won to-day — 
Another, gallants, yet remains to play. ' 

The ancient mannei's, the habits and cus- 
toms of the aboriginal race by whom the High- 
lands of Scotland were inhabited, had always 
appeared to me peculiarly adapted to poetry. 
The change in their manners, too, had taken 
place almost within my own time, or at least I 
had learned many particulars concerning the 
ancient state of the Highlands from the old 



men of the last generation. I had always 
thought the old Scottish Gael highly adapted 
for poetical composition. The feuds and i)oliti- 
cal dissensions Avhich, half a century earlier, 
would have rendered the richer and wealthier 
part of the kingdom indisposed to countenance 
a poem, the scene of which was laid in the 
Highlands, were now sunk in the generous 
compassion which the English, more than any 
other nation, feel for the niisfortunos of an 
lionorable foe. The Poems of Ossian liad by 
their popularity sufficiently shown that if writ- 
ings on Highland subjectij were qualititMl to 
interest the reader, mere national prejudices 
were, in the present day, very unlikely to inter- 
fere with their success. 



154 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



I had also read a gieat deal, seen much, and 
heard more, of that romantic country where I 
was in the habit of spending some time every 
autunm ; and the scenery of Loch Katrine was 
connected with the recollection of many a dear 
friend and merry expedition of former days. 
This poem, the action of which lay among" 
scenes so beautiful and so deeply imprinted on 
my recollections, was a labor of love, and it 
was no less so to recall the manners and in- 
cidents introduced. The frequent custom of 
James IV., and particularly of James V., to 
walk through their kingdom in disguise, af- 
forded me the hint of an incident which never 
fails to be interesting if managed with the 
slightest address or dexterity. 

I may now confess, however, that the employ- 
ment, though attended with great pleasure, was 
not without its doubts and anxieties. A lady, 
to whom I was nearly related, and with whom 
I lived, during her whole life, on the most 
brotherly terms of affection, was residing with 
me at the time when the work was in progress, 
and used to ask me what I could possibly do to 
rise so early in the morning (that happening to 
be the most convenient to me for composition). 
At last I told her the subject of my meditations ; 
and I can never forget the anxiety and affection 
expressed in her reply. ' Do not be so rash,' 
she said, ' my dearest cousin. You are already 
popular, — more so, perhaps, than you yourself 
will believe, or than even I, or other partial 
friends, can fairly allow to your merit. You 
stand high, — do not rashly attempt to climb 
higher, and incur the risk of a fall ; for, de- 
pend upon it, a favorite will not be permitted 
even to stumble with impunity.' I replied to 
this affectionate expostulation in the words of 
Montrose, — 

* *' He either fears his fate too much, 
Or his deserts are small, 
Who dares not put it to the touch 
To gain or lose it all." 

* If I fail,' I said, for the dialogue is strong 
in my recollection, ' it is a sign that I ought 
never to have succeeded, and I will write prose 
for life : you shall see no change in my temper, 
nor will I eat a single meal the worse. But if 
I succeed, — 

' •' Up with the bonnie blue bonnet, 
The dirk, and the feather, and a' ! " 

Afterwards I showed my affectionate and 
anxious critic the first canto of the poem, which 
reconciled her to my imprudence. Neverthe- 
less, although I answered thus confidently, with 
the obstinacy often said to be proper to those 
who bear my surname, I acknowledge that my 
confidence was considerably shaken by the 
warning of her excellent taste and unbiassed 
friendship. Nor was I much comforted by her 



retractation of the unfavorable judgment, when 
I recollected how likely a natural partiality was 
to effect that change of opinion. In such cases 
affection rises like a light on the canvas, im- 
proves any favorable tints which it formerly 
exhibited, and throws its defects into the 
shade. 

I remember that about the same time a 
friend started in to ' heeze up my hope,' like 
the ' sportsman with his cutty gun, ' in the old 
song. He was bred a farmer, but a man of 
powerful understanding, natural good taste, 
and warm poetical feeling, perfectly competent 
to supply the wants of an imperfect or irregu- 
lar education. He was a passionate admirer of 
field-sports, which we often pursued together. 
As this friend happened to dine with me at 
Ashestiel one day, I took the opportunity of 
reading to him the first canto of The Lady of 
the Lake, in order to ascertain the effect the 
poem was likely to produce upon a person who 
was but too favorable a representative of 
readers at large. It is of course to be sup- 
posed that I determined rather to guide my 
opinion by what my friend might appear to 
feel, than by what he might think fit to say. 
His reception of my recitation, or prelection, 
was rather singular. He placed his hand 
across his brow, and listened with great atten- 
tion, through the whole account of the stag- 
hunt, till the dogs threw themselves into the 
lake to follow their master, who embarks with 
Ellen Douglas. He then started up with a 
sudden exclamation, struck his hand on the 
table, and declared, in a voice of censure cal- 
culated for the occasion, that the dogs must 
have been totally ruined by being permitted 
to take the water after such a severe chase. I 
own I was much encouraged by the species 
of revery which had possessed so zealous a 
follower of the sports of the ancient Nimrod, 
who had been completely surprised out of all 
doubts of the reality of the tale. Another of 
his remarks gave me less pleasure. He de- 
tected the identity of the king with the wan- 
dering knight, Fitz-James, when he winds his 
bugle to summon his attendants. He was 
probably thinking of the lively, but somewhat 
licentious, old ballad, in which the denouement 
of a royal intrigue takes place as follows : — 

* He took a bugle frae his side, 
He blew both loud and shrill, 
And four and twenty belted knights 

Came skipping ower the hill ; 
Then he took out a little knife, 

Let a' his duddies fa', 
And he was the brawest gentleman 
That was amang them a'. 

And we '11 go no more a roving,* etc. 

This discovery, as Mr. Pepys says of the 
rent in his camlet cloak, was but a trifle, yet it 



AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 



155 



troubled me ; and I was at a good deal of pains 
to efface any marks by which I thought my 
secret could be traced before the conclusion, 
when I relied on it with the same hope of pro- 
ducing effect, with which the Irish post-boy is 
said to reserve a ' trot for the avenue.' 

I took uncommon pains to verify the accu- 
racy of the local circumstances of this story. 
I recollect, in particular, that to ascertain 
whether I was telling a probable tale I went 
into Perthshire, to see whether King James 
could actually have ridden from the banks of 
Loch Vennachar to Stirling Castle within the 
time supposed in the poem, and had the plea- 
sure to satisfy myself that it was quite prac- 
ticable. 

After a considerable delay, The Lady of 
the Lake appeared in June, 1810 ; and its suc- 
cess was certainly so extraordinary as to induce 
me for the moment to conclude that I had at 
last fixed a nail in the proverbially inconstant 
wheel of Fortune, whose stability in behalf of 
an individual who had so boldly courted her 
favors for three successive times had not as yet 
been shaken. I had attained, perhaps, that 
degree of reputation at which prudence, or 
certainly timidity, would have made a halt, 
and discontinued efforts by which I was far 
more likely to diminish my fame than to in- 
crease it. But, as the celebrated John Wilkes 
is said to have explained to his late Majesty, 
that he himself, amid his full tide of popular- 
ity, was never a Wilkite, so I can, with honest 
truth, exculpate myself from having been at 
any time a partisan of my own poetry, even 
when it was in the highest fashion i^ith the 
million. It must not be supposed that I was 
either so ungrateful or so superabundantly 
candid as to despise or scorn the value of those 
whose voice had elevated me so much higher 
than my own opinion told me I deserved. I 
felt, on the contrary, the more grateful to the 
public, as receiving that from partiality to me, 
which I could not have claimed from merit ; 
and I endeavored to deserve the partiality by 
continuing such exertions as I was capable of 
for their amusement. 

It may be that I did not, in this continued 
course of scribbling, consult either the interest 
of the public or my own. But the former had 
effectual means of defending themselves, and 
could, by their coldness, sufficiently check any 
approach to intrusion ; and for myself, I had 
now for several years dedicated my hours so 
much to literary labor that I should have felt 
difficulty in employing myself otherwise ; and 
so, like Dogberry, I generously bestowed all 
my tediousness on the public, comforting my- 



self with the reflection that, if posterity should 
think me undeserving of the favor with which 
I was regarded by my contemporaries, ' they 
could not but say I had the crown,' and had 
enjoyed for a time that popularity which is so 
much coveted. 

I conceived, however, that I held the dis- 
tinguished situation I had obtained, however 
unworthily, rather like the champion of pugi- 
lism, on the condition of being always ready to 
show proofs of my skill, than in the manner 
of the champion of chivalry, who performs his 
duties only on rare and solemn occasions. I 
was in any case conscious that I could not long 
hold a situation which the caprice rather than 
the judgment of the public had bestowed upon 
me, and preferred being deprived of my pre- 
cedence by some more worthy rival, to sinking 
into contempt for my indolence, and losing my 
reputation by what Scottish lawyers call the 
negative prescription. Accordingly, those who 
choose to look at the Introduction to Hokehy, 
will be able to trace the steps by which I de- 
clined as a poet to figure as a novelist; as 
the ballad says, Queen Eleanor sunk at Charing 
Cross to rise again at Queenhithe. 

It only remains for me to say that, during 
ray short preeminence of popularity, I faith- 
fully observed the rules of moderation which 
I had resolved to follow before I began my 
course as a man of letters. If a man is deter- 
mined to make a noise in the world, he is as 
sure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as he 
who gallops furiously through a village must 
reckon on being followed by the curs in full 
cry. Experienced persons know that in stretch- 
ing to flog the latter, the rider is very apt to 
catch a bad fall ; nor is an attempt to chastise 
a malignant critic attended with less danger to 
the author. On this principle, I let parody, 
burlesque, and squibs find their own level ; 
and while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was 
cautious never to catch them up, as schoolboys 
do, to throw them back against the naughty 
boy who fired them off, wisely remembering 
that they are in such cases apt to explode in 
the handling. Let me add that my reign 
(since Byron has so called it) was marked by 
some instances of good-nature as well as pa- 
tience. I never refused a literary person of 
merit such services in smoothing his way to 
the public as were in my power; and I had 
the advantage — rather an uncommon one with 
our irritable race — to enjoy general favor 
without incurring permanent ill-will, so far as 
is known to nie, among any of my contempo- 
raries. 

Abbotspord, April, 1830. 



156 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



TO 
THE MOST NOBLE 

JOHN JAMES, MARQUIS OF ABERCORN 
&c., &c., &c., 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY 
THE AUTHOR. 



ARGUMENT 

The scene of the following Poem is laid chiefly in the vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the Western Highlands 
of Perthshire. The time of Action includes Six Days, and the transactions of each Day occupy a Canto. 



CANTO FIRST 



THE CHASE 



Harp of the North ! that mouldering long 
hast hung 
On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fil- 
lan's spring, 
And down the fitful breeze thy numbers 
flung, 
Till envious ivy did around thee cling. 
Muffling with verdant ringlet every 
string, — 
O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents 
sleep ? 
Mid rustling leaves and fountains mur- 
muring. 
Still must thy sweeter sounds their 
silence keep. 
Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid 
to weep ? 

Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, lo 
Was thy voice mute amid the festal 
crowd. 
When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, 
Aroused the fearful or subdued the 
proud. 
At each according pause was heard aloud 
Thine ardent symphony sublime and high ! 
Fair dames and crested chiefs attention 
bowed; 
For still the burden of thy minstrelsy 
Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and 
Beauty's matchless eye. 



O, wake once more ! how rude soe'er the 
hand 
That ventures o'er thy magic maze to 
stray; 20 

O, wake once more ! though scarce my 
skill command 
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: 
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die 
away, 
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, 
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, 
The wizard note has not been touched in 
vain. 
Then silent be no more ! Enchantress, 
wake again ! 



The stag at eve had drunk his fill, 

Where danced the moon on Monan's rill. 

And deep his midnight lair had made 30 

In lone Glenartney's hazel shade; 

But when the sun his beacon red 

Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head, 

The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay 

Resounded up the rocky way, 

And faint, from farther distance borne, 

Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. 

II 

As Chief, who hears his warder call, 

* To arms ! the foemen storm the wall,* 

The antlered monarch of the waste 40 

Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. 

But ere his fleet career he took, 

The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; 



CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE 



JS7 



Like crested leader proud and high 
Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; 
A moment gazed adown the dale, 
A moment snuffed the tainted gale, 
A moment listened to the cry, 
That thickened as the chase drew nigh; 
Then, as the headmost foes appeared, 50 
With one brave bound the copse he 

cleared, 
And, stretching forward free and far, 
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. 

Ill 
Yelled on the view the opening pack; 
Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back; 
To many a mingled sound at once 
The awakened mountain gave response. 
A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, 
Clattered a hundred steeds along. 
Their peal the merry horns rung out, 60 
A hundred voices joined the shout; 
With hark and whoop and wild halloo. 
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. 
Far from the tumult fled the roe, 
Close in her covert cowered the doe. 
The falcon, from her cairn on high, 
Cast on the rout a wondering eye. 
Till far beyond her piercing ken 
The hurricane had swept the glen. 
Faint, and more faint, its failing din 70 

Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, 
And silence settled, wide and still. 
On the lone wood and mighty hill. 

IV 

Less loud the sounds of sylvan war 

Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, 

And roused the cavern where, 't is told, 

A giant made his den of old; 

For ere that steep ascent was won. 

High in his pathway hung the sun. 

And many a gallant, stayed perforce, 80 

Was fain to breathe his faltering horse. 

And of the trackers of the deer 

Scarce half the lessening pack was near; 

So shrewdly on the mountain-side 

Had the bold burst their mettle tried. 



The noble stag was pausing now 
Upon the mountain's southern brow, 
Where broad extended, far beneath, 
The varied realms of fair Menteith. 
With anxious eye he wandered o'er 90 

Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, 



And pondered refuge from his toil, 
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. 
But nearer was the copse wood gray 
That waved and wept on Loch Achray, 
And mingled with the pine-trees blue 
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue. 
Fresh vigor with the hope returned. 
With flying foot the heath he spurned, 
Held westward with unwearied race, 100 
And left behind the panting chase. 

VI 

'T were long to tell what steeds gave o'er, 
As swept the hunt through Cambusmore; 
What reins were tightened in despair, 
When rose Benledi's ridge in air; 
Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, 
Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith, — 
For twice that day, from shore to shore, 
The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 
Few were the stragglers, following far, no 
That reached the lake of Vennachar; 
And when the Brigg of Turk was won. 
The headmost horseman rode alone. 

VII 

Alone, but with unbated zeal. 

That horseman plied the scourge and steel; 

For jaded now, and spent with toil. 

Embossed with foam, and dark with soil, 

While every gasp with sobs he drew. 

The laboring stag strained full in view. 

Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 120 

Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed. 

Fast on his flying traces came, 

And all but won that desperate game ; 

For, scarce a spear's length from his 

haunch, 
Vindictive toiled the bloodhounds stanch; 
Nor nearer might the dogs attain, 
Nor farther might the quarry strain. 
Thus up the margin of the lake, 
Between the precipice and brake, 
O'er stock and rock their race they take. 130 

VIII 

The Hunter marked that mountain high, 
The lone lake's western boundary, 
And deemed the stag must turn to bay. 
Where that huge rampart barred the way; 
Already glorying in the prize, 
Measured his antlers with his eyes ; 
For the death-wound and death-halloo 
Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew: — 
But thundering as he came prepared, 



iS8 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



With ready arm and weapon bared, 140 
The wily quarry shunned the shock, 
And turned him from the opposing rock; 
Then, dashing down a darksome glen, 
Soon lost to hound and Hunter's ken, 
In the deep Trosachs' wildest nook 
His solitary refuge took. 
There, while close couched the thicket shed 
Cold dews and wild flowers on his head, 
He heard the baffled dogs in vain 
Rave through the hollow pass amain, 150 
Chiding the rocks that yelled again. 

IX 

Close on the hounds the Hunter came. 
To cheer them on the vanished game; 
But, stumbling in the rugged dell, 
The gallant horse exhausted fell. 
The impatient rider strove in vain 
To rouse him with the spur and rein. 
For the good steed, his labors o'er. 
Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; 
Then, touched with pity and remorse, 160 
He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. 
* I little thought, when first thy rein 
I slacked upon the banks of Seine, 
That Highland eagle e'er should feed 
On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed ! 
Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, 
That costs thy life, my gallant gray ! ' 



Then through the dell his horn resounds. 
From vain pursuit to call the hounds. 169 
Back limped, with slow and crippled pace, 
The sulky leaders of the chase; 
Close to their master's side they pressed. 
With drooping tail and humbled crest; 
But still the dingle's hollow throat 
Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. 
The owlets started from their dream. 
The eagles answered with their scream. 
Round and around the sounds were cast. 
Till echo seemed an answering blast; 
And on the Hunter hied his way, 180 

To join some comrades of the day. 
Yet often paused, so strange the road. 
So wondrous were the scenes it showed. 

XI 

The western waves of ebbing day 
Rolled o'er the glen their level way; 
Each purple peak, each flinty spire. 
Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
3ut not a setting beam could glow 



Within the dark ravines below. 

Where twined the path in shadow hid, 190 

Round many a rocky pyramid. 

Shooting abruptly from the dell 

Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; 

Round many an insulated mass. 

The native bulwarks of the pass, 

Huge as the tower which builders vain 

Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 

The rocky summits, split and rent. 

Formed turret, dome, or battlement. 

Or seemed fantastically set 200 

With cupola or minaret. 

Wild crests as pagod ever decked, 

Or mosque of Eastern architect. 

Nor were these earth-born castles bare, 

Nor lacked they many a banner fair; 

For, from their shivered brows displayed. 

Far o'er the unfathomable glade. 

All twinkling with the dewdrop sheen. 

The brier-rose fell in streamers green. 

And creeping shrubs of thousand dyes 210 

Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. 

XII 

Boon nature scattered, free and wild, 
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. 
Here eglantine embalmed the air, 
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; 
The primrose pale and violet flower 
Found in each clift a narrow bower; 
Foxglove and nightshade, side by side, 
Emblems of punishment and pride, 219 

Grouped their dark hues with every stain 
The weather-beaten crags retain. 
With boughs that quaked at every breath, 
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath; 
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
Cast anchor in the rifted rock; 
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
His shattered trunk, and frequent flung, 
Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, 
His boughs athwart the narrowed sky. 2.^9 
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, 
Where glistening streamers waved and 

danced. 
The wanderer's eye could barely view 
The summer heaven's delicious blue; 
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
The scenery of a fairy dream. 

XIII 

Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep 
A narrow inlet, still and deep. 
Affording scarce such breadth of brim 



CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE 



159 



As served the wild duck's brood to swim. 239 
Lost for a space, through thickets veering, 
But broader when again appearing, 
Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face 
Could on the dark-blue mirror trace; 
And farther as the Hunter strayed, 
Still broader sweep its channels made. 
The shaggy mounds no longer stood, 
Emerging from entangled wood, 
But, wave-encircled, seemed to float. 
Like castle girdled with its moat; 
Yet broader floods extending still 250 

Divide them from their parent hill, 
Till each, retiring, claims to be 
An islet in an inland sea. 

XIV 

And now, to issue from the glen, 

No pathway meets the wanderer's ken. 

Unless he climb with footing nice 

A far-projecting precipice. 

The broom's tough roots his ladder made. 

The hazel saplings lent their aid; 

And thus an airy point he won, 260 

Where, gleaming with the setting sun, 

One burnished sheet of living gold, 

Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled. 

In all her length far winding lay, 

With promontory, creek, and bay. 

And islands that, empurpled bright, 

Floated amid the livelier light, 

And mountains that like giants stand 

To sentinel enchanted land. 

High on the south, huge Benvenue 270 

Down to the lake in masses threw 

Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly 

hurled, 
The fragments of an earlier world; 
A wildering forest feathered o'er 
His ruined sides and summit hoar, 
While on the north, through middle air, 
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. 

XV 

From the steep promontory gazed 

The stranger, raptured and amazed; 279 

And, * What a scene were here,' he cried, 

* For princely pomp or churchman's pride ! 

On this bold brow, a lordly tower; 

In that soft vale, a lady's bower; 

On yonder meadow far away. 

The turrets of a cloister gray; 

How blithely might the bugle-horn 

Chide on the lake the lingering morn ! 

How sweet at eve the lover's lute 



Chime when the groves were still and 

mute 1 
And when the midnight moon should lave 
Her forehead in the silver wave, 291 

How solemn on the ear would come 
The holy matins' distant hum. 
While the deep peal's commanding tone 
Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 
A sainted hermit from his cell. 
To drop a bead with every knell • 
And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, 
Should each bewildered stranger call 
To friendly feast and lighted hall. 300 

XVI 
* Blithe were it then to wander here ! 
But now — beshrew yon nimble deer — 
Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, 
The copse must give my evening fare ; 
Some mossy bank my couch must be, 
Some rustling oak my canopy. 
Yet pass we that; the war and chase 
Give little choice of resting-place ; — 
A summer night in greenwood spent 
Were but to-morrow's merriment: 31c 

But hosts may in these wilds abound, 
Such as are better missed than found; 
To meet with Highland plunderers here 
Were worse than loss of steed or deer. — 
I am alone ; — my bugle-strain 
May call some straggler of the train; 
Or, fall the worst that may betide, 
Ere now this falchion has been tried.' 

XVII 

But scarce again his horn he wound, 

When lo ! forth starting at the sound, 320 

From underneath an aged oak 

That slanted from the islet rock, 

A damsel guider of its way, 

A little skiff shot to the bay, 

That round the promontory steep 

Led its deep line in graceful sweep. 

Eddying, in almost viewless wave, 

The weeping willow twig to lave. 

And kiss, with whispering sound and slow. 

The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 33c 

The boat had touched this silver strand 

Just as the Hunter left his stand, 

And stood concealed amid the brake. 

To view this Lady of the Lake. 

The maiden paused, as if again 

She thought to catch the distant strain. 

With head upraised, and look intent, 

And eye and ear attentive bent. 



i6o 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



And locks flung back, and lips apart, 
Like monument of Grecian art, 340 

In listening mood, she seemed to stand, 
The guardian Naiad of the strand. 

XVIII 

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 

A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 

Of finer form or lovelier face ! 

What though the sun, with ardent frown, 

Had slightly tinged her cheek with 

brown, — 
The sportive toil, which, short and light, 
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright. 
Served too in hastier swell to show 350 

Short glimpses of a breast of snow: 
What though no rule of courtly grace 
To measured mood had trained her pace, — 
A foot more light, a step more true. 
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; 
E'en the slight harebell raised its head, 
Elastic from her airy tread: 
What though upon her speech there hung 
The accents of the mountain tongue, — 
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, 360 
The listener held his breath to hear ! 

XIX 

A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid; 

Her satin snood, her silken plaid, 

Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed. 

And seldom was a snood amid 

Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 

Whose glossy black to shame might bring 

The plumage of the raven's wing; 

And seldom o'er a breast so fair 

Mantled a plaid with modest care, 370 

And never brooch the folds combined 

Above a heart more good and kind. 

Her kindness and her worth to spy. 

You need but gaze on Ellen's eye; 

Not Katrine in her mirror blue 

Gives back the shaggy banks more true, 

Than every free-born glance confessed 

The guileless movements of her breast; 

Whether joy danced in her dark eye. 

Or woe or pity claimed a sigh, 380 

Or filial love was glowing there, 

Or meek devotion poured a prayer, 

Or tale of injury called forth 

The indignant spirit of the North. 

One only passiou unrevealed 

With maiden pride the maid concealed, 

Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — 

O, need I teU that passion's name ? 



XX 

Impatient of the silent horn. 
Now on the gale her voice was borne: — 39c 
'Father ! ' she cried; the rocks around 
Loved to prolong the gentle sound. 
Awhile she paused, no answer came ; — 

* Malcolm, was thine the blast ? ' the name 
Less resolutely uttered fell. 

The echoes could not catch the swell. 

* A stranger I,' the Huntsman said, 
Advancing from the hazel shade. 
The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar 
Pushed her light shallop from the shore, 400 
And when a space was gained between, 
Closer she drew her bosom's screen; — 

So forth the startled swan would swing, 
So turn to prune his ruffled wing. 
Then safe, though fluttered and amazed, 
She paused, and on the stranger gazed. 
Not his the form, nor his the eye. 
That youthful maidens wont to fly. 

XXI 

On his bold visage middle age 

Had slightly pressed its signet sage, 410 

Yet had not quenched the open truth 

And fiery vehemence of youth; 

Forward and frolic glee was there, 

The will to do, the soul to dare, 

The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, 

Of hasty love or headlong ire. 

His limbs were cast in manly mould 

For hardy sports or contest bold; ^^Hj 

And though in peaceful garb arrayed, ^j' 

And weaponless except his blade, 420 

His stately mien as well implied 

A high-born heart, a martial pride, 

As if a baron's crest he wore. 

And sheathed in armor trode the shore. 

Slighting the petty need he showed, 

He told of his benighted road; 

His ready speech flowed fair and free, 

In phrase of gentlest courtesy, 

Yet seemed that tone and gesture bland 

Less used to sue than to command. 430 

XXII 

Awhile the maid .the stranger eyed. 
And, reassured, at length replied. 
That Highland halls were open still 
To wildered wanderers of the hill. 

* Nor think you unexpected come 
To yon lone isle, our desert home; 
Before the heath had lost the dew, 
This morn, a couch was pulled for you; 



CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE 



i6i 



On yonder mountain's purple head 
Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, 440 
And our broad nets have swept the mere, 
To furnish forth your evening cheer.' — 

* Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, 
Your courtesy has erred,' he said; 

* No right have I to claim, misplaced, 
The welcome of expected guest. 

A wanderer, here by fortune tost. 

My way, my friends, my courser lost, 

I ne'er before, believe me, fair. 

Have ever drawn your mountain air, 450 

Till on this lake's romantic strand 

I found a fay in fairy land ! ' — 

XXIII 

* I well believe,' the maid replied, 

As her light skiff approached the side, — 

* I well believe, that ne'er before 

Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore; 

But yet, as far as yesternight. 

Old Allan-bane foretold your plight, — 

A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent 

Was on the visioned future bent. 460 

He saw your steed, a dappled gray, 

Lie dead beneath the birchen way; 

Painted exact your form and mien, 

Your hunting-suit of Lincoln green. 

That tasselled horn so gayly gilt. 

That falchion's crooked blade and hilt. 

That cap with heron plumage trim. 

And yon two hounds so dark and grim. 

He bade that all should ready be 

To grace a guest of fair degree ; 470 

But light I held his prophecy. 

And deemed it was my father's horn 

Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne.' 

XXIV 

The stranger smiled: — * Since to your 

home 
A destined errant-knight I come. 
Announced by prophet sooth and old. 
Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold, 
I '11 lightly front each high emprise 
For one kind glance of those bright eyes. 
Permit me first the task to guide 480 

Your fairy frigate o'er the tide.' 
The maid, with smile suppressed and sly, 
The toil unwonted saw him try; 
For seldom, sure, if e'er before. 
His noble hand had grasped an oar: 
Yet with main strength his strokes he 

drew. 
And o'er the lake the shallop flew; 



With heads erect and whimpering cry. 
The hounds behind their passage ply. 
Nor frequent does the bright oar break 49c 
The darkening mirror of the lake, 
Until the rocky isle they reach, 
And moor their shallop on the beach. 

XXV 

The stranger viewed the shore around; 
'T was all so close with copsewood bound. 
Nor track nor pathway might declare 
That human foot frequented there. 
Until the mountain maiden showed 
A clambering unsuspected road, 499 

That winded through the tangled screen, 
And opened on a narrow green. 
Where weeping birch and willow round 
With their long fibres swept the ground. 
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour. 
Some chief had framed a rustic bower. 

XXVI 

It was a lodge of ample size. 
But strange of structure and device; 
Of such materials as around 
The workman's hand had readiest found. 
Lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks 
bared, 510 

And by the hatchet rudely squared. 
To give the walls their destined height, 
The sturdy oak and ash unite; 
While moss and clay and leaves combined 
To fence each crevice from the wind. 
The lighter pine-trees overhead 
Their slender length for rafters spread. 
And withered heath and rushes dry 
Supplied a russet canopy. 
Due westward, fronting to the green, 520 
A rural portico was seen. 
Aloft on native pillars borne. 
Of mountain fir with bark unshorn. 
Where Ellen's hand had taught to twine 
The ivy and Idsean vine. 
The clematis, the favored flower 
Which boasts the name of virgin-bower. 
And every hardy plant could bear 
Loch Katrine's keen and searching air. 
An instant in this porch she staj'^ed, 530 

And gayly to the stranger said: 

* On heaven and on thy lady call, 
And enter the enchanted hall ! ' 

XXVII 

* My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, 
My gentle guide, in following thee ! ' — 



l62 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



He crossed the threshold, — and a clang 

Of angry steel that instant rang. 

To his bold brow his spirit rushed, 

But soon for vain alarm he blushed, 

When on the floor he saw displayed, 540 

Cause of the din, a naked blade 

Dropped from the sheath, that careless 

flung 
Upon a stag's huge antlers swung; 
For all around, the walls to grace, 
Hung trophies of the fight or chase: 
A target there, a bugle here, 
A battle-axe, a hunting-spear. 
And broadswords, bows, and arrows store, 
With the tusked trophies of the boar. 
Here grins the wolf as when he died, 550 
And there the -svild-cat's brindled hide 
The frontlet of the elk adorns. 
Or mantles o'er the bison's horns; 
Pennons and flags defaced and stained, 
That blackening streaks of blood retained, 
And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, 
With otter's fur and seal's unite, 
In rude and uncouth tapestry all. 
To garnish forth the sylvan hall. 559 

XXVIII 

The wondering stranger round him gazed, 
And next the fallen weapon raised: — 
Few were the arms whose sinewy strength 
Sufficed to stretch it forth at length. 
And as the brand he poised and swayed, 
*I never knew but one,' he said, 

* Whose stalwart arm might brook to wield 
A blade like this in battle-field.' 

She sighed, then smiled and took the word : 

* You see the guardian champion's sword; 
As light it trembles in his hand 570 
As in my grasp a hazel wand : 

My sire's tall form might grace the part 
Of Ferragus or Ascabart, 
But in the absent giant's hold 
Are women now, and menials old/ 

XXIX 

The mistress of the mansion came. 
Mature of age, a graceful dame, 
Whose easy step and stately port 
Had well become a princely court. 
To whom, though more than kindred 
knew, 5S0 

Young Ellen gave a mother's due. 
Meet welcome to her guest she made, 
And every courteous rite was paid. 
That hospitality could claim. 



Though all unasked his birth and name. 
Such then the reverence to a guest, 
That fellest foe might join the feast, 
And from his deadliest foeman's door 
Unquestioned turn, the banquet o'er. 
At length his rank the stranger names, 590 

* The Knight of Snowdoun, James Fitz- 

James; 
Lord of a barren heritage, 
Which his brave sires, from age to age, 
By their good swords had held with toil; 
His sire had fallen in such turmoil. 
And he, God wot, was forced to stand 
Oft for his right with blade in hand. 
This morning with Lord Moray's train 
He chased a stalwart stag in vain, 599 

Outstripped his comrades, missed the deer. 
Lost his good steed, and wandered here.' 

XXX 

Fain would the Knight in turn require 
The name and state of Ellen's sire. 
Well showed the elder lady's mien 
That courts and cities she had seen; 
Ellen, though more her looks displayed 
The simple grace of sylvan maid. 
In speech and gesture, form and face, 
Showed she was come of gentle race. 
'T were strange in ruder rank to find 610 
Such looks, such manners, and such mind. 
Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave. 
Dame Margaret heard with silence grave; 
Or Ellen, innocently gay. 
Turned all inquiry light away: — 
' Weird women we ! by dale and down 
We dwell, afar from tower and town. 
We stem the flood, we ride the blast, 618 
On wandering knights our spells we cast; 
While viewless minstrels touch the string, 
'T is thus our charmed rhymes we sing.' 
She sung, and still a harp unseen 
Filled up the symphony between. 

XXXI 

SONG 

* Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er. 

Sleep the sleep that knows not break- 
ing; 
Dream of battled fields no more. 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall. 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
Fairy strains of music fall, 630 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest I thy warfare o'er. 



CANTO FIRST: THE CHASE 



163 



Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

* No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 

Armor's clang of war-steed champing. 
Trump nor pibroch summon here 

Mustering clan or squadron tramping. 
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 640 

At the daybreak from the fallow. 
And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
Ruder sounds shall none be near. 
Guards nor warders challenge here. 
Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champ- 
ing, 
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.' 

XXXII 

She paused, — then, blushing, led the lay, 

To grace the stranger of the day. 

Her mellow notes awhile prolong 650 

The cadence of the flowing song. 

Till to her lips in measured frame 

The minstrel verse spontaneous came. 

SONG CONTINUED 

* Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done; 

While our slumbrous spells assail ye, 
Dream not, with the rising sun. 

Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den; 
Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying: 
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen 660 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done; 
Think not of the rising sun, 
For at dawning to assail ye 
Here no bugles sound reveilld.' 

XXXIII 

The hall was cleared, — the stranger's bed 
Was there of mountain heather spread. 
Where oft a hundred guests had lain. 
And dreamed their forest sports again. 
But vainly did the heath-flower shed 670 
Its moorland fragrance round his head; 
Not Ellen's spell had lulled to rest 
The fever of his troubled breast. 
In broken dreams the image rose 
Of varied perils, pains, and woes: 
His steed now flounders in the brake, 
Now sinks his barge upon the lake; 
Now leader of a broken host. 
His standard falls, bis honor 's lust. 



Then, — from my couch may heavenly 
might 680 

Chase that worst phantom of the night ! — 

Again returned the scenes of youth, 

Of confident, undoubting truth; 

Again his soul he interchanged 

With friends whose hearts were long es- 
tranged. 

They come, in dim procession led. 

The cold, the faithless, and the dead; 

As warm each hand, each brow as gay. 

As if they parted yesterday. 

And doubt distracts him at the view, — • 690 

O were his senses false or true ? 

Dreamed he of death or broken vow, 

Or is it all a vision now ? 

XXXIV 
At length, with Ellen in a grove 
He seemed to walk and speak of love ; 
She listened with a blush and sigh, 
His suit was warm, his hopes were high. 
He sought her yielded hand to clasp. 
And a cold gauntlet met his grasp: 
The phantom's sex was changed and 

gone, 700 

Upon its head a helmet shone; 
Slowly enlarged to giant size. 
With darkened cheek and threatening eyes. 
The grisly visage, stern and hoar. 
To Ellen still a likeness bore. — 
He woke, and, panting with affright. 
Recalled the vision of the night. 
The hearth's decaying brands were red, 
And deep and dusky lustre shed. 
Half showing, half concealing, all 710 

The uncouth trophies of the hall. 
Mid those the stranger fixed his eye 
Where that huge falchion hung on high, 
And thoughts on thoughts, a countless 

throng. 
Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along. 
Until, the giddy whirl to cure. 
He rose and sought the moonshine pure. 

XXXV 

The wild rose, eglantine, and broom 
Wasted around their rich perfume ; 
The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm ; 720 
The aspens slept beneath the calm; 
Tlie silver light, with quivering glance. 
Played on the water's still expanse, — 
Wild were the heart whose passion's sway 
Could rage beneatli the sober ray ! 
He felt its calm, that warrior guest, 



1 64 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



While thus he communed with his 

breast: — 
* Why is it, at each turn I trace 
Some memory of that exiled race ? 
Can I not mountain maiden spy, 730 

But she must bear the Douglas eye ? 
Can I not view a Highland brand, 
But it must match the Douglas hand ? 
Can I not frame a fevered dream, 
But still the Douglas is the theme ? 
1 11 dream no more, — by manly mind 
Not even in sleep is will resigned. 
My midnight orisons said o*er, 
I '11 turn to rest, and dream no more.' 
His midnight orisons he told, 740 

A prayer with every bead of gold, 
Consigned to heaven his cares and woes, 
And sunk in undisturbed repose, 
Until the heath-cock shrilly crew, 
And morning dawned on Benvenue. 



CANTO SECOND 

THE ISLAND 
I 

At morn the black-cock trims his jetty 
wing, 
'T is morning prompts the linnet's blith- 
est lay. 
All Nature's children feel the matin spring 

Of life reviving, with reviving day; 
And while yon little bark glides down the 
bay. 
Wafting the stranger on his way again. 
Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel 
gray. 
And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy 
strain. 
Mixed with the sounding harp, O white- 
haired Allan-bane ! 



SONG 

* Not faster yonder rowers' might 10 

Flings from their oars the spray, 

Not faster yonder rippling bright. 

That tracks the shallop's course in light, 
Melts in the lake away. 

Than men from memory erase 

The benefits of former days; 

Then, stranger, go ! good speed the while, 

Nor think again of the lonely isle. 



< High place to thee in royal court, 

High place in battled line, 20 

Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport ! 

Where beauty sees the brave resort, 
The honored meed be thine ! 

True be thy sword, thy friend sincere. 

Thy lady constant, kind, and dear. 

And lost in love's and friendship's smile 

Be memory of the lonely isle ! 

Ill 

SONG CONTINUED 

* But if beneath yon southern sky 

A plaided stranger roam. 
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, 30 
And sunken cheek and heavy eye, 

Pine for his Highland home; 
Then, warrior, then be thine to show 
The care that soothes a wanderer's woe; 
Remember then thy hap erewhile, 
A stranger in the lonely isle. 

* Or if on life's uncertain main 

Mishap shall mar thy sail; 
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, 
Woe, want, and exile thou sustain 40 

Beneath the fickle gale; 
Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, 
On thankless courts, or friends estranged. 
But come where kindred worth shall 

smile. 
To greet thee in the lonely isle.' 

IV 

As died the sounds upon the tide. 

The shallop reached the mainland side, 

And ere his onward way he took. 

The stranger cast a lingering look, 

Where easily his eye might reach 50 

The Harper on the islet beach, 

Reclined against a blighted tree, 

As wasted, gray, and worn as he. 

To minstrel meditation given. 

His reverend brow was raised to heaven, 

As from the rising sun to claim 

A sparkle of inspiring flame. 

His hand, reclined upon the wire, 

Seemed watching the awakening fire; 

So still he sat as those who wait 60 

Till judgment speak the doom of fate; 

So still, as if no breeze might dare 

To lift one lock of hoary hair; 

So still, as life itself were fled 

In the last sound his harp had sped. 



CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND 



165 



Upon a rock with lichens wild, 
Beside him Ellen sat and smiled. — 
Smiled she to see the stately drake 
Lead forth his fleet upon the lake, 
While her vexed spaniel from the beach 70 
Bayed at the prize beyond his reach ? 
Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows, 
Why deepened on her cheek the rose ? — 
Forgive, forgive, Fidelity ! 
Perchance the maiden smiled to see 
Yon parting lingerer wave adieu, 
And stop and turn to wave anew; 
And, lovely ladies, ere your ire 
Condemn the heroine of my lyre, 
Show me the fair would scorn to spy 80 
And prize such conquest of her eye ! 

VI 

While yet he loitered on the spot, 
It seemed as Ellen marked him not; 
But when he turned him to the glade, 
One courteous parting sign she made; 
And after, oft the knight would say. 
That not when prize of festal day 
Was dealt him by the brightest fair 
Who e'er wore jewel in her hair. 
So highly did his bosom swell 90 

As at that simple mute farewell. 
Now with a trusty mountain-guide, 
And his dark stag-hounds by his side. 
He parts, — the maid, unconscious still. 
Watched him wind slowly round the 

hill; 
But when his stately form was hid, 
The guardian in her bosom chid, — 

* Thy Malcolm ! vain and selfish maid ! ' 
'T was thus upbraiding conscience said, — 

* Not so had Malcolm idly hung loo 
On the smooth phrase of Souther u tongue; 
Not so had Malcolm strained his eye 
Another step than thine to spy.' — 

* Wake, Allan-bane,' aloud she cried 
To the old minstrel by her side, — 

' Arouse thee from thy moody dream ! 
I '11 give thy harp heroic theme. 
And warm thee with a noble name ; 
Pour forth the glory of the Graeme ! ' 
Scarce from her lip the word had 

rushed, 1 10 

When deep the conscious maiden blushed; 
For of his clan, in hall and bower. 
Young Malcolm Grseme was held the 

flower. 



VII 

The minstrel waked his harp, — three times 

Arose the well-known martial chimes, 

And thrice their high heroic pride 

In melancholy murmurs died. 

' Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,' 

Clasping his withered hands, he said, 

* Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, 120 
Though all unwont to bid in vain. 

Alas ! than mine a mightier hand 

Has tuned my harp, my strings has 

spanned ! 
I touch the chords of joy, but low 
And mournful answer notes of woe; 
And the proud march which victors tread 
Sinks in the wailing for the dead. 
O, well for me, if mine alone 
That dirge's deep prophetic tone ! 
If, as my tuneful fathers said, 130 

This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed, 
Can thus its master's fate foretell. 
Then welcome be the minstrel's knell ! 

VIII 

* But ah ! dear lady, thus it sighed, 
The eve thy sainted mother died; 

And such the sounds which, while I strove 
To wake a lay of war or love. 
Came marring all the festal mirth, 
Appalling me who gave them birth, 
And, disobedient to my call, 140 

Wailed loud through Bothwell's bannered 

hall. 
Ere Douglases, to ruin driven. 
Were exiled from their native heaven. — 
O ! if yet worse mishap and woe 
My master's house must undergo, 
Or aught but weal to Ellen fair 
Brood in these accents of despair, 
No future bard, sad Harp ! shall fling 
Triumph or rapture from thy string; 
One short, one final strain shall flow, 150 
Fraught with unutterable woe, 
Then shivered shall thy fragments lie, 
Thy master cast him down and die ! ' 

IX 
Soothing she answered him : ' Assuage, 
Mine honored friend, the fears of age; 
All melodies to thee are known 
That harp has rung or pipe has blown. 
In Lowland vale or Highland glen, 
From Tweed to Spey — what marvel, then, 
At times unbidden notes should rise, 160 



i66 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



Confusedly bound in memory's ties, 
Entangling, as they rush along, 
The war-march with the funeral song ? — 
Small ground is now for boding fear; 
Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. 
My sire, in native virtue great. 
Resigning lordship, lands, and state, 
Not then to fortune more resigned 
Than yonder oak might give the wind ; 
The graceful foliage storms may reave, 170 
The noble stem they cannot grieve. 
For me ' — she stooped, and, looking round, 
Plucked a blue harebell from the 

ground, — 
* For me, whose memory scarce conveys 
An image of more splendid days, 
This little flower that loves the lea 
May well my simple emblem be; 
It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose 
That in the King's own garden grows ; 
And when I place it in my hair, 180 

Allan, a bard is bound to swear 
He ne'er saw coronet so fair.' 
Then playfully the chaplet wild 
She wreathed in her dark locks, and 

smiled. 



Her smile, her speech, with winning sway, 
Wiled the old Harper's mood away. 
With such a look as hermits throw. 
When angels stoop to soothe their woe, 
He gazed, till fond regret and pride 
Thrilled to a tear, then thus replied : 190 

* Loveliest and best ! thou little know'st 
The rank, the honors, thou hast lost ! 
O, might I live to see thee grace. 

In Scotland's court, thy birthright place, 

To see my favorite's step advance 

The lightest in the courtly dance. 

The cause of every gallant's sigh, 

And leading star of every eye. 

And theme of every minstrel's art. 

The Lady of the Bleeding Heart ! ' 200 

XI 

*Fair dreams are these,' the maiden 

cried, — 
Light was her accent, yet she sighed, — 

* Yet is this mossy rock to me 
Worth splendid chair and canopy; 

Nor would my footstep spring more gay 
In courtly dance than blithe strathspey, 
Nor half so pleased mine ear incline 
To royal minstrel's lay as thine. 



And then for suitors proud and high. 
To bend before my conquering eye, — 210 
Thou, flattering bard ! thyself wilt say. 
That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway. 
The Saxon scourge, Clan- Alpine's pride, 
The terror of Loch Lomond's side. 
Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay 
A Lennox foray — for a day.' — 

XII 

The ancient bard her glee repressed: 
' 111 hast thou chosen theme for jest ! 
For who, through all this western wild, 
Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and 
smiled ? 220 

In Holy-Rood a knight he slew ; 
I saw, when back the dirk he drew, 
Courtiers give place before the stride 
Of the undaunted homicide; 
And since, though outlawed, hath his hand 
Full sternly kept his mountain land. 
Who else dared give — ah ! woe the day, 
That I such hated truth should say ! — 
The Douglas, like a stricken deer, 
Disowned by every noble peer, 230 

Even the rude refuge we have here ? 
Alas, this wild marauding Chief 
Alone might hazard our relief. 
And now thy maiden charms expand. 
Looks for his guerdon in thy hand; 
Full soon may dispensation sought, 
To back his suit, from Rome be brought. 
Then, though an exile on the hill, 
Thy father, as the Douglas, still 
Be held in reverence and fear; 240 

And though to Roderick thou 'rt so dear 
That thou mightst guide with silken thread, 
Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread, 
Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain ! 
Thy hand is on a lion's mane.' — 

XIII 

* Minstrel,' the maid replied, and high 

Her father's soul glanced from her eye, 

' My debts to Roderick's house I know: 

All that a mother could bestow 

To Lady Margaret's care I owe, 2sc 

Since first an orphan in the wild 

She sorrowed o'er her sister's child; 

To her brave chieftain son, from ire 

Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire, 

A deeper, holier debt is owed; 

And, could I pay it with my blood, 

Allan ! Sir Roderick should command 

My blood, my life, — but not my hand. 



CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND 



167 



Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell 
A votaress in Maronnan's cell; 260 

Rather through realms beyond the sea, 
Seeking the world's cold charity, 
Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word. 
And ne'er the name of Douglas heard, 
An outcast pilgrim will she rove. 
Than wed the man she cannot love. 

XIV 

*Thou shak'st, good friend, thy tresses 

gray,— 
That pleading look, what can it say 
But what I own ? — I grant him brave, 269 
But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave; 
And generous, — save vindictive mood 
Or jealous transport chafe his blood: 
I grant him true to friendly band, 
As his claymore is to his hand; 
But O ! that very blade of steel 
More mercy for a foe would feel: 
I grant him liberal, to fling 
Among his clan the wealth they bring. 
When back by lake and glen they wind. 
And in the Lowland leave behind, 280 

Where once some pleasant hamlet stood, 
A mass of ashes slaked with blood. 
The hand that for my father fought 
I honor, as his daughter ought; 
But can I clasp it reeking red 
From peasants slaughtered in their shed ? 
No 1 wildly while his virtues gleam. 
They mak . his passions darker seem, 
And flash along his spirit high. 
Like lightning o'er the midnight sky. 290 
While yet a child, — and children know, 
Instinctive taught, the friend and foe, — 
I shuddered at his brow of gloom. 
His shadowy plaid and sable plume; 
A maiden grown, I ill could bear 
His haughty mien and lordly air: 
But, if thou join'st a suitor's claim. 
In serious mood, to Roderick's name, 
I thrill with anguish ! or, if e'er 
A Douglas knew the word, with fear. 300 
To change such odious theme were best, — 
What think'st thou of our stranger 

guest ? ' — 

XV 
' What think I of him ? — woe the while 
That brought such wanderer to our isle I 
Thy father's battle-brand, of yore 
For Tine-man forged by fairy lore, 
What time he leagued, no longer foes, 



His Border spears with Hotspur's bows. 
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow 
The footstep of a secret foe. 310 

If courtly spy hath harbored here. 
What may we for the Douglas fear ? 
What for this island, deemed of old 
Clan- Alpine's last and surest hold ? 
If neither spy nor foe, I pray 
What yet may jealous Roderick say ? — 
Nay, wave not thy disdainful head ! 
Bethink thee of the discord dread 
That kindled when at Beltane game 
Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm Graeme; 
StilL though thy sire the peace renewed, 321 
Smoulders in Roderick's breast the feud: 
Beware ! — But hark ! what sounds are 

these ? 
My dull ears catch no faltering breeze. 
No weeping birch nor aspens wake. 
Nor breath is dimpling in the lake; 
Still is the canna's hoary beard. 
Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard — 
And hark again ! some pipe of war 
Sends the bold pibroch from afar.' 330 

XVI 

Far up the lengthened lake were spied 
Four darkening specks upon the tide, 
That, slow enlarging on the view. 
Four manned and masted barges grew, 
And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, 
Steered full upon the lonely isle; 
The point of Brianchoil they passed. 
And, to the windward as they cast. 
Against the sun they gave to shine 
The bold Sir Roderick's bannered Pine. 34a 
Nearer and nearer as they bear, 
Spears, pikes, and axes flash in air. 
Now might you see the tartans brave. 
And plaids and plumage dance and wave: 
Now see the bonnets sink and rise, 
As his tough oar the rower plies; 
See, flashing at each sturdy stroke, 
The wave ascending into smoke; 
See the proud pipers on the bow, 
And mark the gaudy streamers flow 35c 
From their loud chanters down, and sweep 
The furrowed bosom of the deep, 
As, rushing through the lake amain, 
They plied the ancient Highland strain. 

XVII 
Ever, as on they bore, more loud 
And louder rung the pibroch proud. 
At first the sounds, by distance tame. 



i68 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



Mellowed along the waters came, 

And, lingering long by cape and bay, 

Wailed every harsher note away, 360 

Then bursting bolder on the ear, 

The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear, 

Those thrilling sounds that call the might 

Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight. 

Thick beat the rapid notes, as when 

The mustering hundreds shake the glen, 

And hurrying at the signal dread. 

The battered earth returns their tread. 

Then prelude light, of livelier tone. 

Expressed their merry marching on, 370 

Ere peal of closing battle rose, 

With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows; 

And mimic din of stroke and ward, 

As broadsword upon target jarred; 

And groaning pause, ere yet again, 

Condensed, the battle yelled amain: 

The rapid charge, the rallying shout, 

Retreat borne headlong into rout. 

And bursts of triumph, to declare 

Clan- Alpine's conquest — all were there. 380 

Nor ended thus the strain, but slow 

Sunk in a moan prolonged and low. 

And changed the conquering clarion swell 

For wild lament o'er those that fell. 

XVIII 

The war-pipes ceased, but lake and hill 
Were busy with their echoes still; 
And, when they slept, a vocal strain 
Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, 
While loud a hundred clansmen raise 
Their voices in their Chieftain's praise. 390 
E^ch boatman, bending to his oar. 
With measured sweep the burden bore, 
In such wild caden'-e as the breeze 
Makes through December's leafless trees. 
The chorus first cor Id Allan know, 
* Roderick Vich Alpine, ho ! iro ! ' 
And near, and nearer as they rowed, 
Distinct the martial ditty flowed. 

XIX 
BOAT SONG 

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! 
Honored and blessed be the ever-green 
Pine ! 400 

Long may the tree, in his banner that 
glanjes, 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our 
line ! 
Heaven send it happy dew, 
Earth lend it sap anew, 



Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow, 
While every Highland glen 
Sends our shout back again, 

'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! * 

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the 
fountain. 
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to 
fade; 410 

When the whirlwind has stripped every 
leaf on the mountain. 
The more shall Clan- Alpine exult in her 
shade. 
Moored in the rifted rock, 
Proof to the tempest's shock. 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; 
Menteith and Breadalbane, then, 
Echo his praise again, 

* Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe ! * 

XX 

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen 
Fruin, 
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan 
replied; 420 

Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking 
in ruin. 
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead 
on her side. 
Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid, 
Think of Clan- Alpine with fear and with 
woe; 
Lennox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear again, 

* Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho I ieroe I ' 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the 
Highlands I 
Stretch to your oars for the ever-green 
Pine ! 430 

O that the rosebud that graces yon islands 
Were wreathed in a garland around him 
to twine I 
O that some seedling gem, 
Worthy such noble stem 
Honored and blessed in their shadow 
might grow ! 
Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
Ring from her deepmost glen, 

* Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! * 

XXI j 

With all her joyful female band 
Had Lady Margaret sought the strand. 440 



CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND 



169 



Loose on the breeze their tresses flew, 
And high their snowy arms they threw, 
As echoing back with shrill acclaim, 
And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name; 
While, prompt to please, with mother's art, 
The darling passion of his heart, 
The Dame called Ellen to the strand, 
To greet her kinsman ere he land: 

* Come, loiterer, come ! a Douglas thou. 
And shun to wreathe a victor's brow ? ' 450 
Reluctantly and slow, the maid 

The unwelcome summoning obeyed, 

And when a distant bugle rung. 

In the mid-path aside she sprung: — 

* List, Allan-bane ! From mainland cast 
I hear my father's signal blast. 

Be ours,* she cried, * the skiff to guide, 
And waft him from the mountain-side.' 
Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright, 
She darted to her shallop light, 460 

And, eagerly while Roderick scanned, 
For her dear form, his mother's band, 
The islet far behind her lay. 
And she had landed in the bay. 

XXII 

Some feelings are to mortals given 
With less of earth in them than heaven; 
And if there be a human tear 
From passion's dross refined and clear, 
A tear so limpid and so meek 
It would not stain an angel's cheek, 470 
'T is that which pious fathers shed 
Upon a duteous daughter's head ! 
And as the Douglas to his breast 
His darling Ellen closely pressed, 
Such holy drops her tresses steeped, 
Though 't was an hero's eye that weeped. 
Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue 
Her filial welcomes crowded hung, 
Marked she that fear — affection's proof — 
Still held a graceful youth aloof; 480 

No ! not till Douglas named his name, 
Although the youth was Malcom Graeme. 

XXIII 
Allan, with wistful look the while, 
Marked Roderick landing on the isle; 
His master piteously he eyed, 
'Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride, 
Then dashed with hasty hand away 
From his dimmed eye the gathering spray; 
And Douglas, as his hand he laid 
On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said: 490 

* Canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy 



In my poor follower's glistening eye ? 
I '11 tell thee : — he recalls the day 
When in my praise he led the lay 
O'er the arched gate of Bothwell proud. 
While many a minstrel answered loud. 
When Percy's Norman pennon, won 
In bloody field, before me shone. 
And twice ten knights, the least a name 
As mighty as yon Chief may claim, 50c 

Gracing my pomp, behind me came. 
Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud 
Was I of all that marshalled crowd, 
Though the waned crescent owned my 

might, 
And in my train trooped lord and knight. 
Though Blantyre hymned her holiest lays, 
And Bothwell's bards flung back my praise. 
As when this old man's silent tear, 
And this poor maid's affection dear, 
A welcome give more kind and true 513 
Than aught my better fortunes knew. 
Forgive, my friend, a father's boast, — 
O, it out-beggars all I lost ! ' 

XXIV 

Delightful praise ! — like summer rose, 
That brighter in the dew-drop glows, 
The bashful maiden's cheek appeared. 
For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard. 
The flash of shame-faced joy to hide. 
The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide; 
The loved caresses of the maid 520 

The dogs with crouch and whimper paid; 
And, at her whistle, on her hand 
The falcon took his favorite stand, 
Closed his dark wing, relaxed his eye, 
Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly. 
And, trust, while in such guise she stood. 
Like fabled Goddess of the wood. 
That if a father's partial thought 
O'erweighed her worth and beauty aught, 
Well might the lover's judgment fail 530 
To balance with a juster scale ; 
For with each secret glance he stole, 
The fond enthusiast sent his soul. 

XXV 

Of stature fair, and slender frame. 
But firmly knit, was Malcolm Grteme. 
The belted plaid and tartan hose 
Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose ; 
His flaxen hair, of sunny hue. 
Curled closely round his bonnet blue. 
Trained to the chase, his eagle eye 54c 

The ptarmigan in snow could spy; 



iJO 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, 
He knew, through Lennox and Menteith; 
Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe 
When Malcolm bent his sounding bow, 
And scarce that doe, though winged with 

fear. 
Outstripped in speed the mountaineer: 
Right up Ben Lomond could he press, 
And not a sob his toil confess. 
His form accorded with a mind 550 

Lively and ardent, frank and kind; 
A blither heart, till Ellen came, 
Did never love nor sorrow tame; 
It danced as lightsome in his breast 
As played the feather on his crest. 
Yet friends, who nearest knew the youth, 
His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth, 
And bards, who saw his features bold 
When kindled by the tales of old, 
Said, were that youth to manhood grown, 560 
Not long should Roderick Dhu's renown 
Be foremost voiced by mountain fame, 
But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme. 

XXVI 

Now back they wend their watery way, 
And, * O my sire ! ' did Ellen say, 

* Why urge thy chase so far astray ? 

And why so late returned ? And why ' — 
The rest was in her speaking eye. 

* My child, the chase I follow far, 

'T is mimicry of noble war; 570 

And with that gallant pastime reft 
Were all of Douglas I have left. 
I met young Malcolm as I strayed 
Far eastward, in Glenfinlas' shade; 
Nor strayed I safe, for all around 
Hunters and horsemen scoured the ground. 
This youth, though still a royal ward. 
Risked life and land to be my guard. 
And through th* passes of the wood 
Guided my steps, not unpursued; 580 

And Roderick shall his welcome make, 
Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake. 
Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glen, 
Nor peril aught for me again.' 

XXVII 

Sir Roderick, who to meet them came. 

Reddened at sight of Malcolm Graeme, 

Yet, not in action, word, or eye., 

Failed aught in hospitality. 

In talk and sport they whiled away 

The morning of that summer day; 590 

But at high noon a courier light 



Held secret parley with the knight. 
Whose moody aspect soon declared 
That evil were the news he heard. 
Deep thought seemed toiling in his head; 
Yet was the evening banquet made 
Ere he assembled round the flame 
His mother, Douglas, and the Graeme, 
And Ellen too; then cast around 
His eyes, then fixed them on the ground, 600 
As studying phrase that might avail 
Best to convey unpleasant tale. 
Long with his dagger's hilt he played. 
Then raised his haughty brow, and said: — 

XXVIII 

* Short be my speech; — nor time affords, 
Nor my plain temper, glozing words. 
Kinsman and father, — if such name 
Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick's claim; 
Mine honored mother; — Ellen, — why. 
My cousin, turn away thine eye ? — 610 
And Graeme, in whom I hope to know 
Full soon a noble friend or foe, 
When age shall give thee thy command. 
And leading in thy native land, — 
List all ! — The King's vindictive pride 
Boasts to have tamed the Border-side, 
Where chiefs, with hound and hawk who 

came 
To share their monarch's sylvan game. 
Themselves in bloody toils were snared. 
And when the banquet they prepared, 620 
And wide their loyal portals flung, 
O'er their own gateway struggling hung. 
Loud cries their blood from Meggat's 

mead, 
From Yarrow braes and banks of Tweed, 
Where the lone streams of Ettrick glide. 
And from the silver Teviot's side ; 
The dales, where martial clans did ride. 
Are now one sheep-walk, waste and wide. 
This tyrant of the Scottish throne. 
So faithless and so ruthless known, 630 

Now hither comes; his end the same. 
The same pretext of sylvan game. 
What grace for Highland Chiefs, judge ye 
By fate of Border chivalry. 
Yet more; amid Glenfinlas' green, 
Douglas, thy stately form was seen. 
This by espial sure I know: 
Your counsel in the streight I show.' 



XXIX 



Ellen and Margaret fearfully 
Sought comfort in each other's eye, 



640 



CANTO SECOND: THE ISLAND 



171 



Then turned their ghastly look, each one, 
This to her sire, that to her son. 
The hasty color went and came 
In the bold cheek of Malcolm Grseme, 
But from his glance it well appeared 
'T was but for Ellen that he feared ; 
While, sorrowful, but undismayed. 
The Douglas thus his counsel said: 

* Brave Roderick, though the tempest roar. 
It may but thunder and pass o'er; 650 
Nor will I here remain an hour. 

To draw the lightning on thy bower; 
For well thou know'st, at this gray head 
The royal bolt were fiercest sped. 
For thee, who, at thy King's command, 
Canst aid him with a gallant band. 
Submission, homage, humbled pride, 
Shall turn the Monarch's wrath aside. 
Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart, 
Ellen and I will seek apart 660 

The refuge of some forest cell; 
There, like the hunted quarry, dwell, 
Till on the mountain and the moor 
The stern pursuit be passed and o'er.' — 

XXX 

' No, by mine honor,' Roderick said, 

* So help me Heaven, and my good blade ! 
No, never ! Blasted be yon Pine, 

My father's ancient crest and mine, 

If from its shade in danger part 

The lineage of the Bleeding Heart ! 670 

Hear my blunt speech: grant me this maid 

To wife, thy counsel to mine aid; 

To Douglas, leagued with Rhoderick Dhu, 

Will friends and allies flock enow; 

Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief, 

Will bind to us each Western Chief. 

When the loud pipes my bridal tell, 

The Links of Forth shall hear the knell. 

The guards shall start in Stirling's porch ; 

And when I light the nuptial torch, 680 

A thousand villages in flames 

Shall scare the slumbers of King James ! — 

Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away, 

And, mother, cease these signs, I pray; 

I meant not all my heat might say. — 

Small need of inroad or of fight, 

When the sage Douglas may unite 

Each mountain clan in friendly band. 

To guard the passes of their land, 

Till the foiled King from pathless glen 690 

Shall bootless turn him home again.' 



XXXI 

There are who have, at midnight hour, 
In slumber scaled a dizzy tower. 
And, on the verge that beetled o'er 
The ocean tide's incessant roar. 
Dreamed calmly out their dangerous 

dream. 
Till wakened by the morning beam; 
When, dazzled by the eastern glow, 
Such startler cast his glance below. 
And saw unmeasured depth around, 700 
And heard unintermitted sound. 
And thought the battled fence so frail, 
It waved like cobweb in the gale ; — 
Amid his senses' giddy wheel. 
Did he not desperate impulse feel, 
Headlong to plunge himself below, 
And meet the worst his fears foreshow ? — 
Thus Ellen, dizzy and astound. 
As sudden ruin yawned around, 
By crossing terrors wildly tossed, 710 

Still for the Douglas fearing most, 
Could scarce the desperate thought with- 
stand. 
To buy his safety with her hand. 

XXXII 

Such purpose dread could Malcolm spy 

In Ellen's quivering lip and eye. 

And eager rose to speak, — but ere 

His tongue could hurry forth his fear, 

Had Douglas marked the hectic strife, 

Where death seemed combating with life; 

For to her cheek, in feverish flood, 720 

One instant rushed the throbbing blood. 

Then ebbing back, with sudden sway. 

Left its domain as wan as clay. 

* Roderick, enough ! enough ! ' he cried, 

'My daughter cannot be thy bride; 

Not that the blush to wooer dear. 

Nor paleness that of maiden fear. 

It may not be, — forgive her, Chief, 

Nor hazard aught for our relief. 

Against his sovereign, Douglas ne'er 730 

Will level a rebellious spear. 

'T was I that taught his youthful hand 

To rein a steed and wield a brand; 

I see him yet, the princely boy ! 

Not Ellen more my pride and joy; 

I love him still, despite my wrongs 

Hy hasty wrath and slanderous tongues. 

(), seek the grace you well may find, 

Without a cause to mine combined I ' 



172 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



XXXIII 

Twice through the hall the Chieftain 
strode ; 740 

The waving of his tartans broad, 
And darkened brow, where wounded pride 
With ire and disappointment vied. 
Seemed, by the torch's gloomy light, 
Like the ill Demon of the night, 
Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway 
Upon the nighted pilgrim's way: 
But, unrequited Love ! thy dart 
Plunged deepest its envenomed smart, 749 
And Roderick, with thine anguish stung. 
At length the hand of Douglas wrung. 
While eyes that mocked at tears before 
With bitter drops were running o'er. 
The death-pangs of long-cherished hope 
Scarce in that ample breast had scope. 
But, struggling with his spirit proud, 
Convulsive heaved its checkered shroud. 
While every sob — so mute were all — 
Was heard distinctly through the hall. 
The son's despair, the mother's look, 760 
111 might the gentle Ellen brook; 
She rose, and to her side there came, 
To aid her parting steps, the Graeme. 

XXXIV 

Then Roderick from the Douglas broke — 
As flashes flame through sable smoke, 
Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low. 
To one broad blaze of ruddy glow, 
So the deep anguish of despair 
Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air. 
With stalwart grasp his hand he laid 770 
On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid: 

* Back, beardless boy ! ' he sternly said, 

* Back, minion ! holdst thou thus at nought 
The lesson I so lately taught ? 

This roof, the Douglas, and that maid, 
Thank thou for punishment delayed.' 
Eager as greyhound on his game. 
Fiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme. 

* Perish my name, if aught afford 

Its Chieftain safety save his sword ! ' 780 
Thus as they strove their desperate hand 
Griped to the dagger or the brand. 
And death had been — but Douglas rose, 
And thrust between the struggling foes 
His giant strength: — ' Chieftains, forego ! 
I hold the first who strikes my foe. — 
Madmen, forbear your frantic jar ! 
What ! is the Douglas fallen so far, 
His daughter's hand is deemed the spoil 
Of such dishonorable broil ? ' 790 



I 



Sullen and slowly they unclasp, 

As struck with shame, their desperate 

grasp. 
And each upon his rival glared, 
With foot advanced and blade half bared. 

XXXV 

Ere yet the brands aloft were flung, 
Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung. 
And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream, 
As faltered through terrific dream. 
Then Roderick plunged in sheath his sword. 
And veiled his wrath in scornful word: 800 

* Rest safe till morning; pity 't were 
Such cheek should feel the midnight air ! 
Then mayst thou to James Stuart tell, 
Roderick will keep the lake and fell. 
Nor lackey with his freeborn clan 
The pageant pomp of earthly man. 
More would he of Clan- Alpine know, 
Thou canst our strength and passes show. — • 
Malise, what ho ! ' — his henchman came : 

* Give our safe-conduct to the Graeme.' 810 
Young Malcolm answered, calm and bold: 

* Fear nothing for thy favorite hold ; 
The spot an angel deigned to grace 

Is blessed, though robbers haunt the place. 

Thy churlish courtesy for those 

Reserve, who fear to be thy foes. 

As safe to me the mountain way 

At midnight as in blaze of day, ■ 

Though with his boldest at his back ^ 

Even Roderick Dhu beset the track. — 820 

Brave Douglas, — lovely Ellen, — nay, 

Nought here of parting will I say. 

Earth does not hold a lonesome glen 

So secret but we meet again. — 

Chieftain ! we too shall find an hour,' — 

He said, and left the sylvan bower. 

XXXVL 

Old Allan followed to the strand — 
Such was the Douglas's command — 
And anxious told, how, on the morn, 829 
The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn. 
The Fiery Cross should circle o'er 
Dale, glen, and valley, down and moor. 
Much were the peril to the Graeme 
From those who to the signal came; 
Far up the lake 't were safest land. 
Himself would row him to the strand. 
He gave his counsel to the wind. 
While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind. 
Round dirk and pouch and broadsword 
rolled, 



CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING 



173 



His ample plaid in tightened fold, 
And stripped his limbs to such array 
As best might suit the watery way, — 



840 



XXXVII 

Then spoke abrupt: 'Farewell to thee. 

Pattern of old fidelity ! ' 

The Minstrel's hand he kindly pressed, — 

* O, could I point a place of rest ! 

My sovereign holds in ward my land. 

My uncle leads my vassal band; 

To tame his foes, his friends to aid, 

Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. 850 

Yet, if there be one faithful Grseme 

Who loves the chieftain of his name. 

Not long shall honored Douglas dwell 

Like hunted stag in mountain cell; 

Nor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare, — 

I may not give the rest to air ! 

Tell Roderick Dhu I owed him nought, 

Not the poor service of a boat. 

To waft me to yon mountain-side.' 

Then plunged he in the flashing tide. 860 

Bold o'er the flood his head he bore. 

And stoutly steered him from the shore ; 

And Allan strained his anxious eye, 

Far mid the lake his form to spy. 

Darkening across each puny wave, 

To which the moon her silver gave. 

Fast as the cormorant could skim. 

The swimmer plied each active limb; 

Then landing in the moonlight dell. 

Loud shouted of his weal to tell. 870 

The Minstrel heard the far halloo. 

And joyful from the shore withdrew. 



CANTO THIRD 

THE GATHERING 
I 

Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race 
of yore. 
Who danced our infancy upon their 
knee. 
And told our marvelling boyhood legends 
store 
Of their strange ventures happed by land 
or sea. 
How are they blotted from the things that 
be ! 
How few, all weak and withered of their 
force, 
Wait on the verge of dark eternity, 



Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning 
hoarse. 
To sweep them from our sight ! Time 
rolls his ceaseless course. 

Yet live there still who can remember 

well, 10 

How, when a mountain chief his bugle 

blew. 

Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell. 

And solitary heath, the signal knew; 
And fast the faithful clan around him 
drew. 
What time the warning note was keenly 
wound. 
What time aloft their kindred banner flew. 
While clamorous war-pipes yelled the 
gathering sound. 
And while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a 
meteor, round. 

II 
The Summer dawn's reflected hue 
To purple changed Loch B^trine blue; 20 
Mildly and soft the western breeze 
Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees. 
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, 
Trembled but dimpled not for joy: 
The mountain-shadows on her breast 
Were neither broken nor at rest; 
In bright uncertainty they lie. 
Like future joys to Fancy's eye. 
The water-lily to the light 
Her chalice reared of silver bright; 30 

The doe awoke, and to the lawn. 
Begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn; 
The gray mist left the mountain-side, 
The torrent showed its glistening pride; 
Invisible in flecked sky 
The lark sent down her revelry; 
The blackbird and the speckled thrush 
Good-morrow gave from brake and bush; 
In answer cooed the cushat dove 
Her notes of peace and rest and love. 40 

III 

No thought of peace, no thought of rest, 
Assuaged the storm in Roderick's breast. 
With sheathed broadsword in his hand. 
Abrupt he paced the islet strand, 
And eyed tlic rising sun, and laid 
His hand on liis impatient blade. 
Beneath a rock, his vassals' care 
Was prompt the ritual to prepare, 
With deep and deathful meaning fraught; 



174 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



I 



For such Antiquity had taught 50 

Was preface meet, ere yet abroad 
The Cross of Fire should take its road. 
The shrinking baud stood oft aghast 
At the impatient glance he cast; — 
Such glance the mountain eagle threw, 
As, from the cliffs of Benvenue, 
She spread her dark sails on the, wind, 
And, high in middle heaven reclined, 
With her broad shadow on the lake, 
Silenced the warblers of the brake. 60 

IV 
A heap of withered boughs was piled, 
Of juniper and rowan wild. 
Mingled with shivers from the oak, 
Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. 
Brian the Hermit by it stood, 
Barefooted, in his frock and hood. 
His grizzled beard and matted hair 
Obscured a visage of despair; 
His naked arms and legs, seamed o'er. 
The scars of frantic penance bore. 70 

That monk, of savage form and face, 
The impending danger of his race 
Had drawn from deepest solitude. 
Far in Benharrow's bosom rude. 
Not his the mien of Christian priest, 
But Druid's, from the grave released, 
Whose hardened heart and eye might brook 
On human sacrifice to look; 
And much, 't was said, of heathen lore 
Mixed in the charms he muttered o'er. 80 
The hallowed creed gave only worse 
And deadlier emphasis of curse. 
No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer. 
His cave the pilgrim shunned with care ; 
The eager huntsman knew his bound. 
And in mid chase called off his hound; 
Or if, in lonely glen or strath. 
The desert-dweller met his path. 
He prayed, and signed the cross between. 
While terror took devotion's mien. 90 



Of Brian's birth strange tales were told. 
His mother watched a midnight fold, 
Built deep within a dreary glen, 
Where scattered lay the bones of men 
In some forgotten battle slain. 
And bleached by drifting wind and rain. 
It might have tamed a warrior's heart 
To view such mockery of his art ! 
The knot-grass fettered there the hand 
Which once could burst an iron band; i 



Beneath the broad and ample bone. 
That bucklered heart to fear unknown, 
A feeble and a timorous guest. 
The fieldfare framed her lowly nest; 
There the slow blindworm left his slime 
On the fleet limbs that mocked at time; 
And there, too, lay the leader's skull. 
Still wreathed with chaplet, flushed and 

full, 
For heath-bell with her purple bloom 
Supplied the bonnet and the plume. 
All night, in this sad glen, the maid 
Sat shrouded in her mantle's shade: 
She said no shepherd sought her side. 
No hunter's hand her snood untied, 
Yet ne'er again to braid her hair 
The virgin snood did Alice wear; 
Gone was her maiden glee and sport, 
Her maiden girdle all too short. 
Nor sought she, from that fatal night, 
Or holy church or blessed rite, 
But locked her secret in her breast. 
And died in travail, unconfessed. 

VI 

Alone, among his young compeers. 

Was Brian from his infant years; 

A moody and heart-broken boy, 

Estranged from sympathy and joy. 

Bearing each taunt which careless tongue 

On his mysterious lineage flung. 

Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale. 

To wood and stream his hap to wail, 130 

Till, frantic, he as truth received 

What of his birth the crowd believed, 

And sought, in mist and meteor fire. 

To meet and know his Phantom Sire ! 

In vain, to soothe his wayward fate. 

The cloister oped her pitying gate; 

In vain the learning of the age 

Unclasped the sable-lettered page; 

Even in its treasures he could find 

Food for the fever of his mind. 140 

Eager he read whatever tells 

Of magic, cabala, and spells, 

And every dark pursuit allied 

To curious and presumptuous pride; 

Till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung, 

And heart with mystic horrors wrung. 

Desperate he sought Benharrow's den. 

And hid him from the haunts of men. 

VII 

The desert gave him visions wild. 
Such as might suit the spectre's child. 



150 



CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING 



175 



Where with black clifPs the torrents toil, 

He watched the wheeling eddies boil, 

Till from their foam his dazzled eyes 

Beheld the River Demon rise: 

The mountain mist took form and limb 

Of noontide hag or goblin grim; 

The midnight wind came wild and dread. 

Swelled with the voices of the dead; 

Far on the future battle-heath 

His eye beheld the ranks of death; 160 

Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurled. 

Shaped forth a disembodied world. 

One lingering sympathy of mind 

Still bound him to the mortal kind; 

The only parent he could claim 

Of ancient Alpine's lineage came. 

Late had he heard, in prophet's dream. 

The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream; 

Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast 

Of charging steeds, careering fast 170 

Along Benharrow's shingly side. 

Where mortal horseman ne'er might ride; 

The thunderbolt had split the pine, — 

All augured ill to Alpine's line. 

He girt his loins, and came to show 

The signals of impending woe. 

And now stood prompt to bless or ban, 

As bade the Chieftain of his clan. 

VIII 

'T was all prepared ; — and from the rock 
A goat, the patriarch of the flock, 180 

Before the kindling pile was laid. 
And pierced by Roderick's ready blade. 
Patient the sickening victim eyed 
The life-blood ebb in crimson tide 
Down his clogged beard and shaggy limb, 
Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. 
The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, 
A slender crosslet framed with care, 
A cubit's length in measure due; 
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, 190 
Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave 
Their shadows o'er Clan- Alpine's grave. 
And, answering Lomond's breezes deep. 
Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. 
The Cross thus formed he held on high. 
With wasted hand and haggard eye, 
And strange and mingled feelings woke, 
While his anathema he spoke : — 

IX 

* Woe to the clansman who shall view 
This symbol of sepulchral yew, 20.. 

Forgetful that its branches grew 



Where weep the heavens their holiest 
dew 

On Alpine's dwelling low ! 
Deserter of his Chieftain's trust. 
He ne'er shall mingle with their dust. 
But, from his sires and kindred thrust, 
Each clansman's execration just 

Shall doom him wrath and woe.' 
He paused ; — the word the vassals took. 
With forward step and fiery look, 2 10 

On high their naked brands they shook. 
Their clattering targets wildly strook; 

And first in murmur low. 
Then, like the billow in his course. 
That far to seaward finds his source. 
And flings to shore his mustered force, 
Burst with loud roar their answer hoarse, 

* Woe to the traitor, woe ! ' 
Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew, 
The joyous wolf from covert drew, 220 

The exulting eagle screamed afar, — 
They knew the voice of Alpine's war. 



The shout was hushed on lake and fell, 
The Monk resumed his muttered spell: 
Dismal and low its accents came. 
The while he scathed the Cross with flame ; 
And the few words that reached the air. 
Although the holiest name was there, 
Had more of blasphemy than prayer. 
But when he shook above the crowd 230 
Its kindled points, he spoke aloud: — 
' Woe to the wretch who fails to rear 
At this dread sign the ready spear ! 
For, as the flames this symbol sear, 
His home, the refuge of his fear, 

A kindred fate shall know; 
Far o'er its roof the volumed flame 
Clan- Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim. 
While maids and matrons on his name 
Shall call down wretchedness and shame, 240 

And infamy and woe.' 
Then rose the cry of females, shrill 
As goshawk's whistle on the hill. 
Denouncing misery and ill. 
Mingled with childhood's babbling trill 

Of curses stammered slow; 
Answering with imprecation dread, 
* Sunk be liia liome in embers red ! 
And cursed be the meanest shed 
That e'er shall hide the houseless head 250 

We doom to want and woe 1 ' 
A sharp and shrieking echo gave, 
Coir-Uriskiu, thy gobliu cave I 



176 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



And the gray pass where birches wave 
On Beala-nam-bo. 

XI 

Then deeper paused the priest anew, 
And hard his laboring breath he drew, 
While, with set teeth and clenched hand, 
And eyes that glowed like fiery brand, 
He meditated curse more dread, 260 

And deadlier, on the clansman's head 
Who, summoned to his chieftain's aid. 
The signal saw and disobeyed. 
The crosslet's points of sparkling wood 
He quenched among the bubbling blood, 
And, as again the sign he reared. 
Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard: 

* When flits this Cross from man to man, 
Vich- Alpine's summons to his clan. 
Burst be the ear that fails to heed ! 270 
Palsied the foot that shuns to speed ! 
May ravens tear the careless eyes. 
Wolves make the coward heart their prize ! 
As sinks that blood-stream in the earth. 
So may his heart's-blood drench his hearth ! 
As dies in hissing gore the spark. 
Quench thou his light. Destruction dark ! 
And be the grace to him denied. 

Bought by this sign to all beside ! ' 

He ceased; no echo gave again 280 

The murmur of the deep Amen. 

XII 
Then Roderick with impatient look 
From Brian's hand the symbol took: 

* Speed, Malise, speed ! ' he said, and gave 
The crosslet to his henchman brave. 

* The muster-place be Lanrick mead — 
Instant the time — speed, Malise, speed ! ' 
Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, 
A barge across Loch Katrine flew: 

High stood the henchman on the prow; 290 

So rapidly the barge-men row. 

The bubbles, where they launched the boat. 

Were all unbroken and afloat, 

Dancing in foam and ripple still. 

When it had neared the mainland hill; 

And from the silver beach's side 

Still was the prow three fathom wide, 

When lightly bounded to the land 

The messenger of blood and brand. 



299 



XIII 



Speed, Malise, speed ! the dun deer's hide 

On fleeter foot was never tied. 

Speed, Malise, speed ! such cause of haste 



Thine active sinews never braced. 
Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, 
Burst down like torrent from its crest ; 
With short and springing footstep pass 
The trembling bog and false morass; 
Across the brook like roebuck bound. 
And thread the brake like questing hound ; 
The crag is high, the scaur is deep, 3 10 

Yet shrink not from the desperate leap: 
Parched are thy burning lips and brow, 
Yet by the fountain pause not now; 
Herald of battle, fate, and fear, 
Stretch onward in thy fleet career ! 
The wounded hind thou track'st not now, 
Pursuest not maid through greenwood 

bough. 
Nor pliest thou now thy flying pace 
With rivals in the mountain race; 
But danger, death, and warrior deed 320 
Are in thy course — speed, Malise, speed ! 

XIV 

Fast as the fatal symbol flies. 

In arms the huts and hamlets rise; 

From winding glen, from upland brown, 

They poured each hardy tenant down. 

Nor slacked the messenger his pace; 

He showed the sign, he named the place, 

And, pressing forward like the wind, 

Left clamor and surprise behind. 

The fisherman forsook the strand, 330 

The swarthy smith took dirk and brand; 

With changed cheer, the mower blithe 

Left in the half-cut swath his scythe; 

The herds without a keeper strayed. 

The plough was in mid-furrow stayed. 

The falconer tossed his hawk away, 

The hunter left the stag at bay; 

Prompt at the signal of alarms. 

Each son of Alpine rushed to arms; 

So swept the tumult and affray 340 

Along the margin of Achray. 

Alas, thou lovely lake ! that e'er 

Thy banks should echo sounds of fear I 

The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep 

So stilly on thy bosom deep. 

The lark's blithe carol from the cloud 

Seems for the scene too gayly loud. 

XV 

Speed, Malise, speed ! The lake is past, 
Duncraggan's huts appear at last. 
And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half 
seen, 350 

Half hidden in the copse so green; 



CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING 



177 



There rnayst thou rest, thy labor done, 
Their lord shall speed the signal on. — 
As stoops the hawk upon his prey, 
The henchman shot him down the way. 
What woeful accents load the gale ? 
The funeral yell, the female wail ! 
A gallant hunter's sport is o'er, 
A valiant warrior fights no more. 
Who, in the battle or the chase, 360 

At Roderick's side shall fill his place ! — 
Within the hall, where torch's ray 
Supplies the excluded beams of day, 
Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, 
Aaid o'er him streams his widow's tear. 
His stripling son stands mournful by. 
His youngest weeps, but knows not why; 
The village maids and matrons round 
The dismal coronach resound. 

XVI 
CORONACH 

He is gone on the mountain, 370 

He is lost to the forest. 
Like a summer-dried fountain. 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font, reappearing, 

From the rain-drops shall borrow, 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary, 
But the voice of the weeper 380 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest^ 
But our flower was in flushing, 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi. 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray. 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 390 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone, and forever ! 

XVII 

See Stumah, who, the bier beside, 
His master's corpse with wonder eyed, 
Poor Stumah ! whom his least halloo 
Could send like lightning o'er the dew. 
Bristles his crest, and points his ears. 



As if some stranger step he hears. 

'T is not a mourner's muffled tread, 400 

Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, 

But headlong haste or deadly fear 

Urge the precipitate career. 

All stand aghast : — unheeding all. 

The henchman bursts into the hall; 

Before the dead man's bier he stood. 

Held forth the Cross besmeared with 

blood ; 
' The muster-place is Lanrick mead; 
Speed forth the signal ! clansmen, speed ! * 

XVIII 

Angus, the heir of Duncan's line, 410 

Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign. 
In haste the stripling to his side 
His father's dirk and broadsword tied; 
But when he saw his mother's eye 
Watch him in speechless agony, 
Back to her opened arms he flew, 
Pressed on her lips a fond adieu, — 

* Alas !' she sobbed, — * and yet be gone, 
And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son ! * 
One look he cast upon the bier, 420 
Dashed from his eye the gathering tear, 
Breathed deep to clear his laboring breast, 
And tossed aloft his bonnet crest. 

Then, like the high-bred colt when, freed. 
First he essays his fire and speed. 
He vanished, and o'er moor and moss 
Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. 
Suspended was the widow's tear 
While yet his footsteps she could hear; 
And when she marked the henchman's 
eye 430 

Wet with unwonted sympathy, 

* Kinsman, ' she said, * his race is run 
That should have sped thine errand on; 
The oak has fallen, — the sapling bough 
Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. 

Yet trust I well, his duty done. 

The orphan's God will guard my son. — 

And you, in many a danger true. 

At Duncan's best your blades that drew. 

To arms, and guard that orphan's head ! 

Let babes and women wail the dead.' 441 

Then weapon-clang and martial call 

Resounded through the funeral hall. 

While from the walls the attendant band 

Snatched sword and targe with hurried 

hand ; 
And short and flitting energy 
(Jlanced from the mourner's sunken eye, 
As if the sounds to warrior dear 



I7S 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



Might rouse her Diiuean from his bier. 
But faded soon that borrowed force; 45c 
Grief claimed his right, and tears their 
course. 

XIX 

Benledi saw the Cross of Fire, ' 
It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire. 
O'er dale and hill the summons flew. 
Xor rest nor pause young Angus knew; 
The tear that gathered in his eye 
He left the moiU'''^.in-'^''recze to dry; 
Until, where Tr ;ng waters roll 

Betwixt him a 1: -Hknnll ^-. 

That graced thr en, 

The chapel of > - 

Swolnwasthe- e bridge, 

But Angus pause^i 1^^: ^^ :^c c^.^e; 
Though the dark waves danced dizzily, 
Though reeled hi- -^^/:;?-^^h^^i:' eye, 
He dashed am: '. ^ .r: 

His right band hi-l- -^-ic: bore. 

His left the pole-ax c . r 1. to guide 
And stay his footing m 11:16 tide. 
He stumbled twice, — the foam splashed 
high, 470 

With hoarser swell the stream raced by; 
And iiad he fallen, — forerer there, 
Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir ! 
But still, as if in parting life, 
Firmer he grasped the Cross of strife, 
Until the opposing bank he gained, 
And up the chapel pathway strained. 

XX 

A blithesome rout that morning-tide 
Had sought the chapel of Saint Bride. 
Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 480 

To Xorman, heir of Armaiidave, 
And, issuing f i arch. 

The bridal now :_^ .„. . :_rir march. 
In rude but glad procession came 
Bonneted sire and coif -clad dame; 
And plaided youth, with jest and jeer, 
Which snooded maiden would not hear; 
And children, that, unwitting why, 
Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry; 
And minstrels, that in measures vied 490 
Before the young and bonny bride, 
Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose 
The tear and blush of morning rose. 
With virgin step and bashful hand 
She held the kerchief's snowy band. 
The gallant bridegroom by her side 



Beheld his prize with victor's pride, 

And the glad mother in her ear 

Was closely whispering word of cheer. 499 

XXI 

Who meets them at the churchyard gate ? 
The messenger of fear and fate ! 
Haste in his hurried accent lies, 
And o;rief is swimmino- in his eves. 
All dripping from the recent flood, 
Panting and travel-soiled he stood. 
The fatal sign of fire and sword 
Held forth, and spoke the appointed word: 
• The muster-place is Lanrick mead; 
Speed forth the signal ! Xorman, speed ! ' 
And must he change so soon the hand 510 
: Just linked to his by holy band, 
I For the fell Cross of blood and brand ? 
I And must the day so blithe that rose, 
I And promised rapture in the close, 
i Before its setting hour, divide 
The bridegroom from the plighted bride ? 
O fatal doom ! — it must ! it must ! 
Clan- Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, 
Her sim^mons dread, brook no delay; 
Stretch to the race, — away ! away ! 520 

XXII 

Yet slow he laid his plaid aside. 
And lingering eyed his lovely bride, 
Until he saw the starting tear 
Speak woe he might not stop to cheer; 
Then, trusting not a second look, 
In haste he sped him up the brook, 
Xor backward glanced till on the heath 
Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith. — 
What in the racer's bosom stirred ? 
The sickening pang of hope deferred, 530 
And memory w4th a torturing train 
Of all his morning visions vain. 
Mingled w-ith love's impatience, came 
The manly thirst for martial fame; 
The stormy joy of mountaineers 
Ere yet they rush upon the spears; 
And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning, 
And hope, from well-fought field retum- 

With war's red honors on his crest, 

To clasp his Mary to his breast. 540 

Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and 

brae, 
Like fire from flint he glanced away, 
While high resolve and feeling strong 
Burst into voluntarv sonor. 



CANTO THIRD: THE GATHERING 



179 



xxin 

SONG 

The heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken curtain for my head, 
My lullaby the warder's tread, 

Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, 
My couch may be my bloody plaid, 550 

Mv vesper song thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 

I may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, 

I dare not think upon thy vow. 

And all it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know; 
When bursts Clan- Alpine on the foe. 
His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary. 560 

A time will come with feeling fratight, 
For, if I fall in battle fought, 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
And if returned from conquered foes, 
How blithely will the evening close, 
How sweet the linnet sing repose, 

To my young bride and me, Mary ! 

XXR' 

Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze, 570 
Rushing in conflagration strong 
Thy deep ravines and dells along, 
Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow. 
And reddening the dark hikes below; 
Nor faster speeds it, nor so far, 
As o'er thy heaths the voice of war. 
The signal roused to martial coil 
The sullen margin of Loch VoU, 
Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source 
Alarmed, Balvaig, thy swampy course; 5S0 
Thence southward turned its rapid road 
Adown Strath-Gartney's valley broad. 
Till rose in arms each man might claim 
A portion in Clan- Alpine's name. 
From the gray sire, whose trembling hand 
Could hardly buckle on his brand, 
To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow 
Were yet scarce terror to the crow. 
Each valley, each sequestered glen, 
Mustered its little honle of men, 590 

That met as torrents from the height 
In highland dales their streams unite. 



Still gathering, as they pour along, 

A voice more load, a tide more strong, 

TiU at the rendezvous they stood 

By hundreds prompt for blows and blood. 

Each trained to arms since life began. 

Owning no tie but to his clan, 

No oath but by his chieftain's hand. 

No law but Koderick Dhu's command. 60c 

XXV 

That summer mom had Roderick Dha 

Surveyed the skirts of Benvenue, 

And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath. 

To view the frontiers of Menteith. 

All backward came with news of truce ; 

Still lay each martial Graeme and Bruce, 

In Kednock courts no horsemen wait. 

No banner waved on Cardross gate. 

On Duchray's towers no beacon shone. 

Nor scared the herons from Loch Con; 610 

All seemed at peace. — Now wot ye why 

The Chieftain with such anxious eye, 

Ere to the muster he repair. 

This western frontier scanned with care ? — 

In Benvenue's most darksome cleft, 

A fair though cruel pledge was left; 

For Doughvs, to his promise true, 

That morning from the isle withdrew. 

And in a deep sequestered dell 

Had sought a low and lonely celL 6k> 

By many a bard in Celtic tongue 

Has Coir-nan-L'riskin been sung; 

A softer name the Saxons gave. 

And called the grot the Goblin Cave. 

XXVI 

It was a wild and strange retremt. 
As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. 
The dell, upon the mountain's crest. 
Yawned like a gash on warrior's breast; 
Its trench had stayed full many a rock, 
Hurled by primeval earthquake shock 630 
From Benvenue's gray summit wUd, 
And here, in random ruin piled, 
They frowned incumbent o'er the spot. 
And formed the rugged sylvan grot. 
The oak and birch with mingled shade 
At noontide there a twilight made, 
Unless when short and sudden shone 
Some straggling beam on cliff or stone. 
With such a glimpse as prophet's eye 
Gains on thy depth. Futurity. f^c 

No murmur waked the solemn still, 
Save tinkling of a fountain rill; 
But when the wind chafed with the lake. 



i8o 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



A sullen sound would upward break, 
With dashing hollow voice, that spoke 
The incessant war of wave and rock. 
Suspended cliffs with hideous sway 
Seemed nodding o'er the cavern gray. 
From such a den the wolf had sprung, 
In such the wild-cat leaves her young; 650 
Yet Douglas and his daughter fair 
Sought for a space their safety there. 
Gray Superstition's whisper dread 
Debarred the spot to vulgar tread ; 
For there, she said, did fays resort, 
And satyrs hold their sylvan court, 
By moonlight tread their mystic maze, 
Ajid blast the rash beholder's gaze. 

XXVII 

Now eve, with western shadows long, 

Floated on Katrine bright and strong, 660 

When Roderick with a chosen few 

Repassed the heights of Benvenue. 

Above the Goblin Cave they go, 

Through the wild pass of Beal-nam-bo; 

The prompt retainers speed before, 

To launch the shallop from the shore, 

For 'cross Loch Katrine lies his way 

To view the passes of Achray, 

And place his clansmen in array. 

Yet lags the Chief in musing mind, 670 

Unwonted sight, his men behind. 

A single page, to bear his sword, 

Alone attended on his lord; 

The rest their way through thickets break, 

And soon await him by the lake. 

It was a fair and gallant sight. 

To view them from the neighboring height, 

By the low-levelled sunbeam's light ! 

For strength and stature, from the clan 

Each warrior was a chosen man, 680 

As even afar might well be seen. 

By their proud step and martial mien. 

Their feathers dance, their tartans float. 

Their targets gleam, as by the boat 

A wild and warlike group they stand. 

That well became such mountain-strand. 

XXVIII 

Their Chief with step reluctant still 
Was lingering on the craggy hill, 
Hard by where turned apart the road 
To Douglas's obscure abode. 690 

It was but with that dawning morn 
That Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn 
To drown his love in war's wild roar. 
Nor think of £Uen Douglas more; 



But he who stems a stream with sand, 

And fetters flame with flaxen band. 

Has yet a harder task to prove, — 

By firm resolve to conquer love ! 

Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost, 

Still hovering near his treasure lost; 70c 

For though his haughty heart deny 

A parting meeting to his eye, 

Still fondly strains his anxious ear 

The accents of her voice to hear, 

And inly did he curse the breeze 

That waked to sound the rustling trees. 

But hark ! what mingles in the strain ? 

It is the harp of Allan-bane, 

That wakes its measure slow and high, 

Attuned to sacred minstrelsy. 710 

What melting voice attends the strings ? 

'T is Ellen, or an angel, sings. 

XXIX 

HYM>" TO THE VIRGIN 

Ave Maria ! maiden mild ! 

Listen to a maiden's prayer ! 
Thou canst hear though from the wild, 

Thou canst save amid despair. 
Safe may we sleep beneath thy care. 

Though banished, outcast, and re\iled — 
Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer; 

Mother, hear a suppliant child ! 72c 

Ave Maria! 

Ave Maria ! undefiled ! 

The flinty couch we now must share 
Shall seem with down of eider piled, 

If thy protection hover there. 
The murky cavern's heavy air 

Shall breathe of balm if thou hast 
smiled; 
Then, Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer, 

Mother, list a suppliant child ! 

Ave Mayial 



A ve Maria ! stainless styled ! 

Foul demons of the earth and air. 
From this their wonted haunt exiled. 

Shall flee before thy presence fair. 
We bow us to our lot of care. 

Beneath thy guidance reconciled: 
Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer. 

And for a father hear a child ! 

Ave Maria ! 

XXX 

Died on the harp the closing hymn, — 
Unmoved in attitude and limb, 



73G 



CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 



183 



As listening still, Clan-Alpine's lord 
Stood leaning on his heavy sword, 740 

Until the page with humble sign 
Twice pointed to the sun's decline. 
Then while his plaid he round him cast, 
* It is the last time — 't is the last,' 
He muttered thrice, — ' the last time e'er 
That angel-voice shall Roderick hear ! ' 
It was a goading thought, — his stride 
Hied hastier down the mountain-side; 
Sullen he flung him in the boat, 
An instant 'cross the lake it shot. 750 

They landed in that silvery bay, 
And eastward held their hasty way, 
Till, with the latest beams of light. 
The band arrived on Lanrick height. 
Where mustered in the vale below 
Clan- Alpine's men in martial show. 

XXXI 

A various scene the clansmen made: 
Some sat, some stood, some slowly strayed ; 
But most, with mantles folded round. 
Were couched to rest upon the ground, 760 
Scarce to be known by curious eye 
From the deep heather where they lie. 
So well was matched the tartan screen 
With heath-bell dark and brackens green; 
Unless where, here and there, a blade 
Or lance's point a glimmer made. 
Like glow-worm twinkling through the 

shade. 
But when, advancing through the gloom. 
They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume. 
Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide, 770 
Shook the steep mountain's steady side. 
Thrice it arose, and lake and fell 
Three times returned the martial yell; 
It died upon Bochastle's plain. 
And Silence claimed her evening reign. 



CANTO FOURTH 



THE PROPHECY 



' The rose is fairest when 't is budding 
new, 
And hope is brightest when it dawns 
from fears; 
The rose is sweetest washed with morning 
dew. 
And love is loveliest when embalmed in 
tears. 



O wilding rose, whom fancy thus eust. 190 

I bid your blossoms in my bonnet 
Emblem of hope and love through f i 
years ! ' 
Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Ax 
mandave. 
What time the sun arose on Vennachar's 
broad wave. 



Such fond conceit, half said, half sung, 10 
Love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue. 
All while he stripped the wild-rose spray, 
His axe and bow beside him lay. 
For on a pass 'twixt lake and wood 
A wakeful sentinel he stood. 
Hark ! — on the rock a footstep rung, 
And instant to his arms he sprung. 

< Stand, or thou diest ! — What, Malise ? — 

soon 
Art thou returned from Braes of Doune. 
By thy keen step and glance I know, 20 
Thou bring'st us tidings of the foe.' — 
For while the Fiery Cross hied on, 
On distant scout had Malise gone. — 

* Where sleeps the Chief ? ' the henchman 

said. 

* Apart, in yonder misty glade; 

To his lone couch I '11 be your guide.' — 

Then called a slumberer by his side. 

And stirred him with his slackened bow, — 

< Up, up, Glentarkin ! rouse thee, ho ! 

We seek the Chieftain; on the track 30 
Keep eagle watch till I come back.' 

Ill 
Together up the pass they sped: 

* What of the foeman ? ' Norman said. — 

* Varying reports from near and far; 
This certain, — that a band of war 
Has for two days been ready boune. 

At prompt command to march from 

Doune ; 
King James the while, with princely 

powers, 
Holds revelry in Stirling towers. 
Soon will this dark and gathering cloud 40 
Speak on our glens in thunder loud. 
Inured to bide such bitter bout, 
The warrior's plaid may bear it out; 
But, Norman, how wilt thou provide 
A shelter for thy bonny bride ? ' — 

* What ! know ye not that Roderick's care 
To the lone isle hath caused repair 

Each maid and matron of the clau, 



i8o 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



A sulleD ry child and aged man 

With dor arms; and given his charge, 50 

The jikiff nor shallop, boat nor barge, 

Su?on these lakes shall float at large, 

S^ut all beside the islet moor, 

That such dear pledge may rest se- 



cure 



9'. 



IV 



* 'T is well advised, — the Chieftain's plan 
Bespeaks the father of his clan. 

But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu 

Apart from all his followers true ? ' 

*It is because last evening-tide 

Brian an augury hath tried, 60 

Of that dread kind which must not be 

Unless in dread extremity, 

The Taghairm called; by which, afar. 

Our sires foresaw the events of war. 

Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew.' — 

MALISE 

* Ah ! well the gallant brute I knew ! 
The choicest of the prey we had 
When swept our merrymen Gallangad. 
His hide was snow, his horns were dark. 
His red eye glowed like fiery spark; 70 
So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet. 

Sore did he cumber our retreat. 

And kept our stoutest kerns in awe, 

Even at the pass of Beal 'maha. 

But steep and flinty was the road. 

And sharp the hurrying pikeman's goad. 

And when we came to Dennan's Row 

A child might scathless stroke his brow.' 



* That bull was slain; his reeking hide 
They stretched the cataract beside, 80 

Whose waters their wild tumult toss 
Adown the black and craggy boss 
Of that huge cliff whose ample verge 
Tradition calls the Hero's Targe. 
Couched on a shelf beneath its brink, 
Close where the thundering torrents sink. 
Rocking beneath their headlong sway, 
And drizzled by the ceaseless spray. 
Midst groan of rock and roar of stream. 
The wizard waits prophetic dream. 90 

Nor distant rests the Chief; — but hush ! 
See, gliding slow through mist and bush, 
The hermit gains yon rock, and stands 
To gaze upon our slumbering bands. 
Seems he »ot, MftUstJ^ like a ghost. 



That hovers o'er a slaughtered host ? 
Or raven on the blasted oak. 
That, watching while the deer is broke. 
His morsel claims with sullen croak ? ' 



* Peace ! peace ! to other than to me 100 
Thy words were evil augury; 

But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade 

Clan- Alpine's omen and her aid. 

Not aught that, gleaned from heaven or 

hell, 
Yon fiend-begotten Monk can tell. 
The Chieftain joins him, see — and now 
Together they descend the brow.' — 

VI m 

And, as they came, with Alpine's Lord 
The Hermit Monk held solemn word: — 

* Roderick ! it is a fearful strife, no 
For man endowed with mortal life. 
Whose shroud of sentient clay can still 
Feel feverish pang and fainting chill. 
Whose eye can stare in stony trance. 
Whose hair can rouse like warrior's 

lance, — 
'T is hard for such to view, unfurled, 
The curtain of the future world. 
Yet, witness every quaking limb. 
My sunken pulse, mine eyeballs dim, 
My soul with harrowing anguish torn, 120 
This for my Chieftain have I borne ! — 
The shapes that sought my fearful couch 
A human tongue may ne'er avouch; 
No mortal man — save he, who, bred 
Between the living and the dead, 
Is gifted beyond nature's law — 
Had e'er survived to say he saw. 
At length the fateful answer came 
In characters of living flame ! 
Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, 130 
But borne and branded on my soul : — 
Which spills the foremost foeman's 

LIFE, 

That party conquers in the strife.' 

VII 

' Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care ! 

Good is thine augury, and fair. 

Clan-Alpine ne'er in battle stood 

But first our broadswords tasted blood. 

A surer victim still I know, 

Self -offered to the auspicious blow: 

A spy has sought my land this morn, — 140 

No eve shall witness his return ! 



CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 



183 



My followers guard each pass's mouth, 
To east, to westward, and to south; 
Red Murdoch, bribed to be his guide, 
Has charge to lead his steps aside, 
Till in deep path or dingle brown 
He light on those shall bring him down. — 
But see, who comes his news to show ! 
Malise ! what tidings of the foe ? ' 149 

VIII 

* At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaive, 
Two Barons proud their banners wave. 

I saw the Moray's silver star, 

And marked the sable pale of Mar.' 

* By Alpine's soul, high tidings those ! 
I love to hear of worthy foes. 

When move they on ? ' * To-morrow's noon 
Will see them here for battle boune.' 

* Then shall it see a meeting stern ! 

But, for the place, — say, couldst thou 

learn 
Nought of the friendly clans of Earn ? 160 
Strengthened by them, we well might bide 
The battle on Benledi's side. 
Thou couldst not ? — well ! Clan- Alpine's 

men 
Shall man the Trosachs' shaggy glen ; 
Within Loch Katrine's gorge we '11 fight. 
All in our maids' and matrons' sight, 
Each for his hearth and household fire. 
Father for child, and son for sire. 
Lover for maid beloved ! — But why — 
Is it the breeze afPects mine eye ? 170 

Or dost thou come, ill-omened tear ! 
A messenger of doubt or fear ? 
No ! sooner may the Saxon lance 
Unfix Benledi from his stance, 
Than doubt or terror can pierce through 
The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu ! 
'T is stubborn as his trusty targe. 
Each to his post ! — all know their charge.' 
The pibroch sounds, the bands advance, 
The broadswords gleam, the banners 

dance, 180 

Obedient to the Chieftain's glance. — 
I turn me from the martial roar. 
And seek Coir-Uriskin once more. 

IX 

Where is the Douglas ? — he is gone; 
And Ellen sits on the gray stone 
Fast by the cave, and makes her moan, 
While vainly Allan's words of cheer 
Are poured on her unheeding ear. 

* He will return — dear lady, trust ! — 



With joy return; — he will — he must. 190 
Well was it time to seek afar 
Some refuge from impending war, 
When e'en Clan- Alpine's rugged swarm 
Are cowed by the approaching storm. 
I saw their boats with many a light, 
Floating the livelong yesternight. 
Shifting like flashes darted forth 
By the red streamers of the north ; 
I marked at morn how close they ride, 
Thick moored by the lone islet's side, 200 
Like wild ducks couching in the fen 
When stoops the hawk upon the glen. 
Since this rude race dare not abide 
The peril on the mainland side. 
Shall not thy noble father's care 
Some safe retreat for thee prepare ? ' 



* No, Allan, no ! Pretext so kind 
My wakeful terrors could not blind. 
When in such tender tone, yet grave, 
Douglas a parting blessing gave, 210 
The tear that glistened in his eye 
Drowned not his purpose fixed and high. 
My soul, though feminine and weak, 

Can image his; e'en as the lake. 
Itself disturbed by slightest stroke, 
Reflects the invulnerable rock. 
He hears report of battle rife. 
He deems himself the cause of strife. 
I saw him redden when the theme 
Turned, Allan, on thine idle dream 220 

Of Malcolm Grseme in fetters bound. 
Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. 
Think'st thou he trowed thine omen aught ? 
O no ! 't was apprehensive thought 
For the kind youth, — for Roderick too — 
Let me be just — that friend so true; 
In danger both, and in our cause ! 
Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. 
Why else that solemn warning given, 
" If not on earth, we meet in heaven ! " 230 
Why else, to Cambus-kenneth's fane, 
If eve return him not again. 
Am I to hie and make me known ? 
Alas 1 he goes to Scotland's throne, 
Buys his friends' safety with his own; 
He goes to do — what I had done, 
Had Douglas' daughter been bis son ! ' 

XI 

* Nay, lovely Ellen ! — dearest, nay ! 
If aught should his return delay, 



1 84 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



240 



250 



He only named yon holy fane 
As fitting place to meet again. 
Be sure he 's safe, and for the Graeme, — 
Heaven's blessing on his gallant name ! — 
My visioned sight may yet prove true, 
Nor bode of ill to him or you. 
When did my gifted dream beguile ? 
Think of the stranger at the isle, 
And think upon the harpiugs slow 
That presaged this approaching woe ! 
Sooth was my prophecy of fear; 
Believe it when it augurs cheer. 
Would we had left this dismal spot ! 
Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot. 
Of such a wondrous tale I know — 
Dear lady, change that look of woe. 
My harp was wont thy grief to cheer.' 



* Well, be it as thou wilt; I hear. 
But cannot stop the bursting tear.' 
The Minstrel tried his simple art. 
But distant far was Ellen's heart. 



260 



XII 

BALLAD 



ALICE BRAND 



Merry it is in the good greenwood. 

When the mavis and merle are singing. 

When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds 
are in cry. 
And the hunter's horn is ringing. 

* O Alice Brand, my native land 

Is lost for love of you; 
And we must hold by wood and wold, 
As outlaws wont to do. 

* O Alice, 't was all for thy locks so bright. 

And 't was all for thine eyes so blue, 270 
That on the night of our luckless flight 
Thy brother bold I slew. 

* Now must I teach to hew the beech 

The hand that held the glaive. 

For leaves to spread our lowly bed, 

And stakes to fence our cave. 

* And for vest of pall, thy fingers small. 

That wont on harp to stray, 
A cloak must shear from the slaughtered 
deer. 
To keep the cold away.' 280 



* O Richard ! if my brother died, 

'T was but a fatal chance; 
For darkling was the battle tried, 
And fortune sped the lance. 

* If pall and vair no more I wear, 

Nor thou the crimson sheen. 
As warm, we '11 say, is the russet gray, 
As gay the forest-green. 

* And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 

And lost thy native land, 290 

Still Alice has her own Richard, 
And he his Alice Brand.' 

XIII 

BALLAD CONTINUED 

'T is merry, 't is merry, in good greenwood; 

So blithe Lady Alice is singing; 
On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side. 

Lord Richard's axe is ringing. 

Up spoke the moody Elfin King, 
Who woned within the hill, — 

Like wind in the porch of a ruined church, 
His voice was ghostly shrill. 300 

* Why sounds yon stroke on beech and 

oak. 

Our moonlight circle's screen ? 
Or who comes here to chase the deer, 

Beloved of our Elfin Queen ? 
Or who may dare on wold to wear 

The fairies' fatal green ? 

* Up, Urgan, up ! to yon mortal hie, 

For thou wert christened man; 
For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, 

For muttered word or ban. 310 

* Lay on him the curse of the withered heart. 

The curse of the sleepless eye; 
Till he wish and pray that his life would 
part. 
Nor yet find leave to die.' 

XIV 
BALLAD CONTINUED 

'T is merry, 't is merry, in good green- 
wood. 
Though the birds have stilled their sing- 
ing; 
The evening blaze doth Alice raise, 
And Richard is fagots bringing. 



CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 



i8S 



Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, 

Before Lord Richard stands, 320 

And, as he crossed and blessed himself, 

* I fear not sign,' quoth the grisly elf, 

* That is made with bloody hands.' 

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 
That woman void of fear, — 

* And if there 's blood upon his hand, 

'T is but the blood of deer.' 

* Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood ! 

It cleaves unto his hand. 
The stain of thine own kindly blood, 330 
The blood of Ethert Brand.' 

Then forward stepped she, Alice Brand, 
And made the holy sign, — 

* And if there 's blood on Richard's hand, 

A spotless hand is mine. 

* And I conjure thee, demon elf. 

By Him whom demons fear. 
To show us whence thou art thyself, 
And what thine errand here ? ' 

XV 

BALLAD CONTINUED 

* 'T is merry, 't is merry, in Fairy-land, 340 

When fairy birds are singing. 
When the court doth ride by their monarch's 
side. 
With bit and bridle ringing: 

* And gayly shines the Fairy-land — 

But all is glistening show, 
Like the idle gleam that December's beam 
Can dart on ice and snow. 

* And fading, like that varied gleam. 

Is our inconstant shape. 
Who now like knight and lady seem, 350 
And now like dwarf and ape. 

* It was between the night and day. 

When the Fairy King has power. 
That I sunk down in a sinful fray, 
And 'twixt life and death was snatched away 

To the joyless Elfin bower. 

* But wist I of a woman bold, 

Who thrice my brow durst sign, 
I might regain my mortal mould, 

As fair a form as thiuo.' 360 



She crossed him once — she crossed him 
twice — 

That lady was so brave; 
The fouler grew his goblin hue. 

The darker grew the cave. 

She crossed him thrice, that lady bold; 

He rose beneath her hand 
The fairest knight on Scottish mould, 

Her brother, Ethert Brand ! 

Merry it is in good greenwood. 

When the mavis and merle are sing- 
ing, ^ 370 
But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray. 

When all the bells were ringing. 

XVI 

Just as the minstrel sounds were stayed, 

A stranger climbed the steepy glade; 

His martial step, his stately mien, 

His hunting-suit of Lincoln green, 

His eagle glance, remembrance claims — 

'T is Snowdoun's Knight, 't is James Fitz- 

James. 
Ellen beheld as in a dream. 
Then, starting, scarce suppressed a 

scream : 380 

* O stranger ! in such hour of fear 
What evil hap has brought thee here ? ' 
' An evil hap how can it be 

That bids me look again on thee ? 
By promise bound, my former guide 
Met me betimes this morning-tide. 
And marshalled over bank and bourne 
The happy path of my return.' 

* The happy path ! — what ! said he 

nought 
Of war, of battle to be fought, 390 

Of guarded pass ? ' * No, by my faith ! 
Nor saw I aught could augur scathe.' 
*0 haste thee, Allan, to the kern: 
Yonder his tartans I discern; 
Learn thou his purpose, and conjure 
That he will guide the stranger sure ? — 
What prompted thee, unhappy man ? 
The meanest serf in Roderick's clan 
Had not been bribed, by love or fear. 
Unknown to him to guide thee here.* 400 

XVII 

* Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, 
Since it is worthy care from thee; 
Yet life I hold but idle breath 

When lovo or honor 's weighed with death 



i86 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



Then let me profit by my chance, 

And speak my purpose bold at once. 

I come to bear thee from a wild 

Where ne'er before such blossom smiled, 

By this soft hand to lead thee far 

From frantic scenes of feud and war. 410 

Near Bochastle my horses wait; 

They bear us soon to Stirling gate. 

I '11 place thee in a lovely bower, 

I '11 guard thee like a tender flower — ' 

* O hush. Sir Knight ! 't were female art, 
To say I do not read thy heart; 

Too much, before, my selfish ear 

Was idly soothed my praise to hear. 

That fatal bait hath lured thee back, 

In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track; 420 

And how, O how, can I atone 

The wreck my vanity brought on ! — 

One way remains — I '11 tell him all — 

Yes ! struggling bosom, forth it shall ! 

Thou, whose light folly bears the blame, 

Buy thine own pardon with thy shame ! 

But first — my father is a man 

Outlawed and exiled, under ban; 

The price of blood is on his head, 

With me, 't were infamy to wed. 430 

Still wouldst thou speak ? — then hear the 

truth ! 
Fitz-James, there is a noble youth 
If yet he is ! — exposed for me 
And mine to dread extremity — 
Thou hast the secret of my heart; 
Forgive, be generous, and depart ! ' 

XVIII 

Fitz-James knew every wily train 

A lady's fickle heart to gain. 

But here he knew and felt them vain. 

There shot no glance from Ellen's eye, 440 

To give her steadfast speech the lie ; 

In maiden confidence she stood, 

Though mantled in her cheek the blood. 

And told her love with such a sigh 

Of deep and hopeless agony, 

As death had sealed her Malcolm's doom 

And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. 

Hope vanished from Fitz-James's eye. 

But not with hope fled sympathy. 

He proffered to attend her side, 450 

As brother would a sister guide. 

* O little know'st thou Roderick's heart ! 
Safer for both we go apart. 

O haste thee, and from Allan learn 
If thou mayst trust yon wily kern.' 
With hand upon liis forehead laid, 



The conflict of his mind to shade, 

A parting step or two he made; 

Then, as some thought had crossed his 

brain. 
He paused, and turned, and came again. 460 

XIX 

* Hear, lady, yet a parting word ! — 
It chanced in fight that my poor sword 
Preserved the life of Scotland's lord. 
This ring the grateful Monarch gave. 
And bade, when I had boon to crave. 
To bring it back, and boldly claim 
The recompense that I would name. 
Ellen, I am no courtly lord. 
But one who lives by lance and sword, 
Whose castle is his helm and shield, 470 
His lordship the embattled field. 
What from a prince can I demand. 
Who neither reck of state nor land ? 
Ellen, thy hand — the ring is thine ; 
Each guard and usher knows the sign. 
Seek thou the King without delay; 
This signet shall secure thy way: 
And claim thy suit, whate'er it be. 
As ransom of his pledge to me.' 
He placed the golden circlet on, 4S0 

Paused — kissed her hand — and then was 

gone. 
The aged Minstrel stood aghast, m 

So hastily Fitz-James shot past. |B 

He joined his guide, and wending down 
The ridges of the mountain brown, 
Across the stream they took their way 
That joins Loch Katrine to Achray. 



XX 



All in the Trosachs' glen was still. 
Noontide was sleeping on the hill: 489 

Sudden his guide whooped loud and high — 
' Murdoch ! was that a signal cry ? ' — 
He stammered forth, * I shout to scare 
Yon raven from his dainty fare.' 
He looked — he knew the raven's prey, 
His own brave steed: • Ah ! gallant gray ! 
For thee — for me, perchance — 't were well 
We ne'er had seen the Trosachs' dell. — 
Murdoch, move first — but silently; 
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die ! ' 
Jealous and sullen on they fared, 500 

Each silent, each upon his guard. 

XXI 
Now wound the path its dizzy ledge 
Around a precipice's edge, 



I 



CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 



187 



When lo ! a wasted female form, 
Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, 
In tattered weeds and wild array. 
Stood on a cliff beside the way, 
And glancing round her restless eye. 
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky. 
Seemed nought to mark, yet all to spy. 510 
Her brow was wreathed with gaudy 

broom ; 
With gesture wild she waved a plume 
Of feathers, which the eagles fling 
To crag and cliff from dusky wing; 
Such spoils her desperate step had sought. 
Where scarce was footing for the goat. 
The tartan plaid she first descried. 
And shrieked till all the rocks replied ; 
As loud she laughed when near they 

drew. 
For then the Lowland garb she knew; 520 
And then her hands she wildly wrung, 
And then she wept, and then she sung — 
She sung ! — the voice, in better time, 
Perchance to harp or lute might chime ; 
And now, though strained and roughened, 

still 
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill. 

XXII 
SONG 

They bid me sleep, they bid me pray. 
They say my brain is warped and 
wrung — 
I cannot sleep on Highland brae, 

I cannot pray in Highland tongue. 530 
But were I now where Allan glides, 
Or heard my native Devan's tides. 
So sweetly would I rest, and pray 
That Heaven would close my wintry day ! 

'T was thus my hair they bade me braid, 
They made me to the church repair; 

It was my bridal morn, they said. 

And my true love would meet me there. 

But woe betide the cruel guile 539 

That drowned in blood the morning smile ! 

And woe betide the fairy dream ! 

I only waked to sob and scream. 

XXIII 

* Who is this maid ? what means her lay ? 
She hovers o'er the hollow way, 
And flutters wide her mantle gray. 
As the lone heron spreads his wing, 
By twilight, o*er a haunted spring.' 
*'T is Blanche of Devan," Murdoch said, 



* A crazed and captive Lowland maid, 
Ta'en on the morn she was a bride, 550 
When Roderick forayed Devan-side. 

The gay bridegroom resistance made. 
And felt our Chief's unconquered blade. 
I marvel she is now at large. 
But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's 

charge. — 
Hence, brain-sick fool ! ' — He raised his 

bow: — 

* Now, if thou strik'st her but one blow, 
I '11 pitch thee from the cliff as far 

As ever peasant pitched a bar ! ' 
' Thanks, champion, thanks ! ' the Maniac 
cried, 560 

And pressed her to Fitz-James's side. 

* See the gray pennons I prepare. 

To seek my true love through the air ! 
I will not lend that savage groom. 
To break his fall, one downy plume ! 
No ! — deep amid disjointed stones. 
The wolves shall batten on his bones. 
And then shall his detested plaid. 
By bush and brier in mid-air stayed. 
Wave forth a banner fair and free, 570 

Meet signal for their revelry.' 

XXIV 

* Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still ! ' 

* O ! thou look'st kindly, and I will. 
Mine eye has dried and wasted been. 
But still it loves the Lincoln green; 
And, though mine ear is all unstrung. 
Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue. 

*For O my sweet William was forester 
true. 
He stole poor Blanche's heart away ! 579 
His coat it was all of the greenwood hue. 
And so blithely he trilled the Lowland 
layl 

* It was not that I meant to tell . . . 
But thou art wise and guessest well.* 
Then, in a low and broken tone, 
And hurried note, the song went on. 
Still on the Clansman fearfully 

She fixed her apprehensive eye, 

Then turned it on the Knight, and then 

Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen. 

XXV 

* The toils are pitched, and the stakes axe 

set, — 590 

Ever sing merrily, merrily; 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



The bows they bend, and the knives they 
whet, 
Hunters live so cheerily. 

* It was a stag, a stag of ten, 

Bearing its branches sturdily; 
He came stately down the glen, — 
Ever sing hardily, hardily. 

' It was there he met with a wounded 
doe, 

She was bleeding deathfully; 
She warned him of the toils below, 600 

O, so faithfully, faithfully ! 

* He had an eye, and he could heed, — 

Ever sing warily, warily; 
He had a foot, and he could speed, — 
Hunters watch so narrowly.' 

XXVI 

Fitz-James's mind was passion-tossed, 
When Ellen's hints and fears were lost; 
But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought. 
And Blanche's song conviction brought. 
Not like a stag that spies the snare, 610 
But lion of the hunt aware, 
He waved at once his blade on high, 

* Disclose thy treachery, or die ! ' 
Forth at full speed the Clansman flew, 
But in his race his bow he drew. 

The shaft just grazed Fitz- James's crest, 
And thrilled in Blanche's faded breast. — 
Murdoch of Alpine ! prove thy speed. 
For ne'er had Alpine's son such need; 
With heart of fire, and foot of wind, 620 
The fierce avenger is behind ! 
Fate judges of the rapid strife — 
The forfeit death — the prize is life; 
Thy kindred ambush lies before. 
Close couched upon the heathery moor; 
Them couldst thou reach ! — it mav not 

be- ^ 

Thine ambushed kin thou ne'er shalt see, 
The fiery Saxon gains on thee ! — 
Resistless speeds the deadly thrust, 
As lightning strikes the pine to dust; 630 
With foot and hand Fitz - James must 

strain 
Ere he can win his blade again. 
Bent o'er the fallen with falcon eye. 
He grimly smiled to see him die, 
Then slower wended back his way, 
Where the poor maiden bleeding lay. 



1 



XXVII 

She sat beneath the birchen tree, 
Her elbow resting on her knee; 
She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, 
And gazed on it, and feebly laughed; 640 
Her wreath of broom and feathers gray, 
Daggled with blood, beside her lay. 
The Knight to stanch the life-strean 
tried, — 

* Stranger, it is in vain ! ' she cried. 

* This hour of death has given me more 
Of reason's power than years before; 
For, as these ebbing veins decay, 
My frenzied visions fade away. 
A helpless injured wretch I die. 
And something tells me in thine eye 65^ 
That thou wert mine avenger born. 
Seest thou this tress ? — O, still I 've worn 
This little tress of yellow hair, ^Si 
Through danger, frenzy, and despair ! ^m 
It once was bright and clear as thine, 

But blood and tears have dimmed its shine. 
I will not tell thee when 't was shred. 
Nor from what guiltless victim's head, — 
My brain would turn ! — but it shall wave 
Like plumage on thy helmet brave, 660 
Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, 
And thou wilt bring it me again. 
I waver still. — O God ! more bright 
Let reason beam her parting light ! — 
O, by thy knighthood's honored sign, 
And for thy life preserved by mine. 
When thou shalt see a darksome man. 
Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's Clan, 
With tartans broad and shadowy plume. 
And hand of blood, and brow of gloom, 670 
Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong. 
And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's 

wrong ! — 
They watch for thee by pass and fell . . . 
Avoid the path . . . O God ! . . . fare- 
well ! ' 

XXVIII 

A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James; 
Fast poured his eyes at pity's claims; 
And now, with mingled grief and ire. 
He saw the murdered maid expire. 

* God, in my need, be my relief. 

As I wreak this on yonder Chief ! ' 680 

A lock from Blanche's tresses fair 
He blended with her bridegroom's hair; 
The mingled braid in blood he dyed, 
And placed it on his bonnet-side: 



CANTO FOURTH: THE PROPHECY 



189 



* By Him whose word is truth, I swear, 
No other favor will I wear, 
Till this sad token I imbrue 
In the best blood of Roderick Dhu ! — 
But hark ! what means yon faint halloo ? 
The chase is up, — but they shall know, 690 
The stag at bay 's a dangerous foe.' 
Barred from the known but guarded way. 
Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James must 

stray. 
And oft must change his desperate track, 
By stream and precipice turned back. 
Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length, 
From lack of food and loss of strength. 
He couched him in a thicket hoar. 
And thought his toils and perils o'er: — 
Of all my rash adventures past, 700 

This frantic feat must prove the last ! 
Who e'er so mad but might have guessed 
That all this Highland hornet's nest 
Would muster up in swarms so soon 
As e'er they heard of bands at Doune ? — 
Like bloodhounds now they search me 

out, — 
Hark, to the whistle and the shout ! — 
If farther through the wilds I go, 
I only fall upon the foe: 
I '11 couch me here till evening gray, 710 
Then darkling try my dangerous way.* 

XXIX 

The shades of eve come slowly down. 
The woods are wrapt in deeper brown. 
The owl awakens from her dell. 
The fox is heard upon the fell; 
Enough remains of glimmering light 
To guide the wanderer's steps aright. 
Yet not enough from far to show 
His figure to the watchful foe. 
With cautious step and ear awake, 720 

He climbs the crag and threads the brake ; 
And not the summer solstice there 
Tempered the midnight mountain air, 
But every breeze that swept the wold 
Benumbed his drenched limbs with cold. 
In dread, in danger, and alone. 
Famished and chilled, through ways un- 
known. 
Tangled and steep, he journeyed on; 
Till, as a rock's huge point he turned, 
A watch-fire close before him burned. 730 

XXX 

Beside its embers red and clear. 
Basked in his plaid a mountaineer; 



And up he sprung with sword in hand, — 

* Thy name and purpose ! Saxon, stand ! ' 

* A stranger.' * What dost thou require ? * 

* Rest and a guide, and food and fire. 
My life 's beset, my path is lost, 

The gale has chilled my limbs with frost.' 

* Art thou a friend to Roderick ? ' * No.' 

* Thou dar'st not call thyself a foe ? ' 740 

* I dare ! to him and all the band 

He brings to aid his murderous hand.' 

* Bold words ! — but, though the beast of 

game 
The privilege of chase may claim. 
Though space and law the stag we lend, 
Ere hound we slip or bow we bend. 
Who ever recked, where, how, or when. 
The prowling fox was trapped or slain ? 
Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they 

lie. 
Who say thou cam'st a secret spy ! ' — 750 

* They do, by heaven ! — come Roderick 

Dhu, 
And of his clan the boldest two. 
And let me but till morning rest, 
I write the falsehood on their crest.' 

* If by the blaze I mark aright. 

Thou bear'st the belt and spur of Knight.' 

* Then by these tokens mayst thou know 
Each proud oppressor's mortal foe.' 

* Enough, enough ; sit down and share 

A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare.' 760 

XXXI 

He gave him of his Highland cheer. 

The hardened flesh of mountain deer; 

Dry fuel on the fire he laid, 

And bade the Saxon share his plaid. 

He tended him like welcome guest. 

Then thus his further speech addressed : — 

* Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu 
A clansman born, a kinsman true: 
Each word against his honor spoke 
Demands of me avenging stroke; 77c 
Yet more, — upon thy fate, 't is said, 

A mighty augury is laid. 

It rests with me to wind my horn, — 

Thou art with numbers overborne; 

It rests with me, hero, brand to brand, 

Worn as thou art, to bid theo stand: 

But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause. 

Will I depart from honor's laws; 

To assail a wearied man wore shame. 

And stranger is a holy name; 780 

(luidance and rest, and food and firo, 

In vain he never must require. 



190 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



Then rest thee here till dawn of day; 

Myself will guide thee on the way, 

O'er stock and stone, through watch and 

ward, 
Till past Clan- Alpine's outmost guard, 
As far as Coilantogle's ford; 
From thence thy warrant is thy sword.* 

* I take thy courtesy, by heaven. 

As freely as 't is -nobly given ! ' 790 

* Well, rest thee; for the bittern's cry 
Sings us the lake's wild lullaby.' 
With that he shook the gathered heath, 
And spread his plaid upon the wreath; 
And the brave foemen, side by side, 
Lay peaceful down like brothers tried, 
And slept until the dawning beam 
Purpled the mountain and the stream. 



CANTO FIFTH 



THE COMBAT 



Faih as the earliest beam of eastern light. 
When first, by the bewildered pilgrim 
spied. 
It smiles upon the dreary brow of night, 
And silvers o'er the torrent's foaming 
tide. 
And lights the fearful path on mountain- 
side, — 
Fair as that beam, although the fairest 
far. 
Giving to horror grace, to danger pride, 
Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's 
bright star. 
Through all the wreckf ul storms that cloud 
the brow of War. 



That early beam, so fair and sheen. 
Was twinkling through the hazel screen. 
When, rousing at its glimmer red, 
The warriors left their lowly bed, 
Looked out upon the dappled sky, 
Muttered their soldier matins by. 
And then awaked their fire, to steal, 
As short and rude, their soldier meal. 
That o'er, the Gael around him threw 
His graceful plaid of varied hue, 
And, true to promise, led the way, 
By thicket green and mountain gray. 
A wildering path ! — they winded now 
Along the precipice's brow, 



Commanding the rich scenes beneath. 
The windings of the Forth and Teith, 
And all the vales between that lie, 
Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky; 
Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance 
Gained not the length of horseman's lance. 
'T was oft so steep, the foot was fain 30 
Assistance from the hand to gain; 
So tangled oft that, bursting through, 
Each hawthorn shed her showers of 

dew, — 
That diamond dew, so pure and clear, 
It rivals all but Beauty's tear ! 

Ill 

At length they came where, stem and 

steep. 
The hill sinks down upon the deep. 
Here Vennachar in silver flows, 
There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose; 
Ever the hollow path twined on, 40 

Beneath steep bank and threatening stone; 
A hundred men might hold the post 
With hardihood against a host. 
The rugged mountain's scanty cloak 
Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak. 
With shingles bare, and cliffs between, 
And patches bright of bracken green, 
And heather black, that waved so high. 
It held the copse in rivalry. 
But where the lake slept deep and stiU, 50 
Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill; 
And oft both path and hill were torn. 
Where wintry torrent down had borne, 
And heaped upon the cumbered land 
Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand. 
So toilsome was the road to trace, 
The guide, abating of his pace, 
Led slowly through the pass's jaws, 
And asked Fitz-James by what strange 

cause 59 

He sought these wilds, traversed by few, 
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. 

IV 

* Brave Gael, my pass, in danger tried, 
Hangs in my belt and by my side; 
Yet, sooth to tell,' the Saxon said, 
' I dreamt not now to claim its aid. 
When here, but three days since, I came, 
Bewildered in pursuit of game, 
All seemed as peaceful and as still 
As the mist slumbering on yon hill; 
Thy dangerous Chief was then afar. 
Nor soon expected back from war. 



CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT 



191 



Thus said, at least, my mountain-guide, 
Though deep perchance the villain lied.' 

* Yet why a second venture try ? ' 

* A warrior thou, and ask me why ! — 
Moves our free course by such fixed cause 
As gives the poor mechanic laws ? 
Enough, I sought to drive away 

The lazy hours of peaceful day; 

Slight cause will then suffice to guide 80 

A Knight's free footsteps far and wide, — 

A falcon flown, a greyhound strayed, 

The merry glance of mountain maid; 

Or, if a path be dangerous known, 

The danger's self is lure alone.' 



* Thy secret keep, I urge thee not; — 
Yet, ere again ye sought this spot. 
Say, heard ye nought of Lowland war. 
Against Clan- Alpine, raised by Mar ? ' 

* No, by my word ; — of bands prepared 90 
To guard King James's sports I heard; 
Nor doubt I aughfc, but, when they hear 
This muster of the mountaineer. 

Their pennons will abroad be flung. 
Which else in Doune had peaceful hung.' 

* Free be they flung ! for we were loath 
Their silken folds should feast the moth. 
Free be they flung ! — as free shall wave 
Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. 

But, stranger, peaceful since you came, 100 
Bewildered in the mountain-game. 
Whence the bold boast by which you show 
Vich- Alpine's vowed and mortal foe ? ' 

* Warrior, but y ester-morn I knew 
Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
Save as an outlawed desperate man, 
The chief of a rebellious clan. 

Who, in the Regent's court and sight. 
With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight; 
Yet this alone might from his part no 

Sever each true and loyal heart.' 

VI 
Wrathful at such arraignment foul. 
Dark lowered the clansman's sable scowl, 
A space he paused, then sternly said, 

* And heardst thou why he drew his blade ? 
Heardst thou that shameful word and bk)w 
Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe ? 
What recked the Chieftain if he stood 
On Highland heath or Holy- Rood ? 

He rights such wrong wliere it is given, 120 
If it were in the court of heaven.' 

* Still was it outrage; — yet, 't is true, 



Not then claimed sovereignty his due; 
While Albany with feeble hand 
Held borrowed truncheon of command. 
The young King, mewed in Stirling tower, 
Was stranger to respect and power. 
But then, thy Chieftain's robber life ! — 
Winning mean prey by causeless strife. 
Wrenching from ruined Lowland swain 130 
His herds and harvest reared in vain, — 
Methinks a soul like thine should scorn 
The spoils from such foul foray borne.' 

VII 

The Gael beheld him grim the while, 

And answered with disdainful smile: 

* Saxon, from yonder mountain high, 

I marked thee send delighted eye 

Far to the south and east, where lay. 

Extended in succession gay. 

Deep waving fields and pastures green, 140 

With gentle slopes and groves between: — 

These fertile plains, that softened vale. 

Were once the birthright of the Gael ; 

The stranger came with iron hand, 

And from our fathers reft the land. 

Where dwell we now ? See, rudely swell 

Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. 

Ask we this savage hill we tread 

For fattened steer or household bread, 

Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, 150 

And well the mountain might reply, — 

" To you, as to your sires of yore. 

Belong the target and claymore ! 

I give you shelter in my breast, 

Your own good blade must win the rest." 

Pent in this fortress of the North, 

Think'st thou we will not sally forth. 

To spoil the spoiler as we may. 

And from the robber rend the prey ? 

Ay, by my soul ! — While on yon plain 160 

The Saxon rears one shock of grain, 

While of ten thousand herds there strays 

But one along yon river's maze, — 

The Gael, of plain and river heir, 

Shall with strong hand redeem his share. 

Where live the mountain Chiefs who liold 

That plundering Lowland field and fold 

Is aught but retribution true ? 

Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu.* 

VIII 

Answered Fitz-,Tames: * And, if I sought, 
Think'st thou no otlicr couhi bo brought ? 
What deem ye of my patli waylaid ? 171 
My life given o'er to ambuscade ? * 



192 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



* As of a meed to rashness due : 

Hadst thou sent warning fair and true, — 

I seek my hound or falcon strayed, 

I seek, good faith, a Highland maid, — 

Free hadst thou been to come and go; 

But secret path marks secret foe. 

Nor yet for this, even as a spy, 180 

Hadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die, 

Save to fulfil an augury.' 

* Well, let it pass ; nor will I now 
Fresh cause of enmity avow, 

To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. 

Enough, I am by promise tied 

To match me with this man of pride: 

Twice have I sought Clan- Alpine's glen 

In peace; but when I come again, 

I come with banner, brand, and bow, 190 

As leader seeks his mortal foe. 

For love-lorn swain in lady's bower 

Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, 

As I, until before me stand 

This rebel Chieftain and his band ! ' 

IX 

* Have then thy wish ! ' — He whistled 

shrill. 
And he was answered from the hill; 
Wild as the scream of the curlew, 
From crag to crag the signal flew. 
Instant, through copse and heath, arose 200 
Bonnets and spears and bended bows; 
On right, on left, above, below. 
Sprung up at once the lurking foe; 
From shingles gray their lances start, 
The bracken bush sends forth the dart, 
The rushes and the willow-wand 
Are bristling into axe and brand. 
And every tuft of broom gives life 
To plaided warrior armed for strife. 
That whistle garrisoned the glen 210 

At once with full five hundred men. 
As if the yawning hill to heaven 
A subterranean host had given. 
Watching their leader's beck and will, 
All silent there they stood and still. 
Like the loose crags whose threatening mass 
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass. 
As if an infant's touch could urge 
Their headlong passage down the verge, 
With step and weapon forward flung, 220 
Upon the mountain-side they hung. 
The Mountaineer cast glance of pride 
Along Benledi's living side. 
Then fixed his eye and sable brow 
FuU on Fitz- James: * Ho^ say'st thou now ? 



240 



These are Clan- Alpine's warriors true; 
And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu ! ' 



Fitz - James was brave : — though to his 

heart 
The life-blood thrilled with sudden start. 
He manned himself with dauntless air, 230 
Beturned the Chief his haughty stare, 
His back against a rock he bore. 
And firmly placed his foot before: — 

* Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly 
From its firm base as soon as I.' 

Sir Boderick marked, — and in his eyes 
Bespect was mingled with surprise, 
And the stern joy which warriors feel 
In foeman worthy of their steel. 
Short space he stood — then waved his 

hand: 
Down sunk the disappearing band; 
Each warrior vanished where he stood, 
In broom or bracken, heath or wood; 
Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, 
In osiers pale and copses low; 
It seemed as if their mother Earth 
Had swallowed up her warlike birth. 
The wind's last breath had tossed in air 
Pennon and plaid and plumage fair, — 
The next but swept a lone hill-side, 250 

Where heath and fern were waving wide 
The sun's last glance was glinted back 
From spear and glaive, from targe and 

jack; 
The next, all unreflected, shone 
On bracken green and cold gray stone. 

XI 

Fitz-James looked round, — yet scarce be- 
lieved 
The witness that his sight received; 
Such apparition well might seem 
Delusion of a dreadful dream. 
Sir Boderick in suspense he eyed, 260 

And to his look the Chief replied: 

* Fear nought — nay, that I need not say — 
But — doubt not aught from mine array. 
Thou art my guest; — I pledged my word 
As far as Coilantogle ford: 

Nor would I call a clansman's brand 
For aid against one valiant hand, 
Though on our strife lay every vale 
Bent by the Saxon from the Gael. 
So move we on ; — I only meant 270 

To show the reed on which you leant. 
Deeming this path you might pursue 



CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT 



193 



Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.* 
They moved; — I said Fitz- James was 

brave 
As ever knight that belted glaive, 
Yet dare not say that now his blood 
Kept on its wont and tempered flood, 
As, following Roderick's stride, he drew 
That seeming lonesome pathway through, 
Which yet by fearful proof was rife 280 
With lances, that, to take his life, 
Waited but signal from a guide. 
So late dishonored and defied. 
Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round 
The vanished guardians of the ground. 
And still from copse and heather deep 
Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep, 
And in the plover's shrilly strain 
The signal whistle heard again. 
Nor breathed he free till far behind 290 
The pass was left; for then they wind 
Along a wide and level green. 
Where neither tree nor tuft was seen. 
Nor rush nor bush of broom was near, 
To hide a bonnet or a spear. 

XII 

The Chief in silence strode before. 
And reached that torrent's sounding shore, 
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes. 
From Vennachar in silver breaks, 
Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless 

mines 300 

On Bochastle the mouldering lines. 
Where Rome, the Empress of the world. 
Of yore her eagle wings unfurled. 
And here his course the Chieftain stayed. 
Threw down his target and his plaid. 
And to the Lowland warrior said: 
* Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, 
Vich- Alpine has discharged his trust. 
This murderous Chief, this ruthless man. 
This head of a rebellious clan, 3 m 

Hath led thee safe, through watch and 

ward, 
Far past Clan- Alpine's outmost guard. 
Now, man to man, and steel to steel, 
A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. 
See, here all vantageless I stand, 
Armed like thyself with single brand; 
For this is Coilantogle ford. 
And thou must keep thee with thy sword.' 

XIII 

The Saxon paused : * I ne'er delayed. 
When foeman bade me draw my blade; 320 



Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death; 
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, 
And my deep debt for life preserved, 
A better meed have well deserved : 
Can nought but blood our feud atone ? 
Are there no means ? ' — * No, stranger. 

none ! 
And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — 
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; 
For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred 
Between the living and the dead: 330 

" Who spills the foremost foeman's life, 
His party conquers in the strife." ' 
' Then, by my word,' the Saxon said, 

* The riddle is already read. 

Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, — 

There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. 

Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy; 

Then yield to Fate, and not to me. 

To James at Stirling let us go. 

When, if thou wilt be still his foe, 340 

Or if the King shall not agree 

To grant thee grace and favor free, 

I plight mine honor, oath, and word 

That, to thy native strengths restored. 

With each advantage shalt thou stand 

That aids thee now to guard thy land.' 

XIV 
Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye: 

* Soars thy presumption, then, so high. 
Because a wretched kern ye slew, 
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu ? 35c 
He yields not, he, to man nor Fate ! 
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate; — 

My clansman's blood demands revenge. 
Not yet prepared ? — By heaven, I change 
My thought, and hold thy valor light 
As that of some vain carpet knight. 
Who ill deserved my courteous care, 
And whose best boast is but to wear 
A braid of his fair lady's hair.' 

* I thank thee, Roderick, for the word ! 360 
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword; 
For I have sworn this braid to stain 

In the best blood that warms thy vein. 
Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone ! — 
Yet think not that by thee alone. 
Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown; 
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn. 
Start at my whistle clansmen stern. 
Of this small horn one feeble blast 
Would fearful odds against thee cast. 370 
But fear not — doubt not — which thou 
wilt — 



194 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.' 
Then each at once his falchion drew, 
Each on the ground his scabbard threw, 
Each looked to sun and stream and plain 
As what they ne'er might see again; 
Then foot and point and eye opposed, 
In dubious strife they darkly closed. 

XV 

111 fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
That on the field his targe he threw, 380 
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide 
Had death so often dashed aside; 
For, trained abroad his arms to wield, 
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. 
He practised every pass and ward. 
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; 
While less expert, though stronger far, 
The Gael maintained unequal war. 
Three times in closing strife they stood. 
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood; 390 
No stinted draught, no scanty tide. 
The gushing flood the tartans dyed. 
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain. 
And showered his blows like wintry rain; 
And, as firm rock or castle-roof 
Against the winter shower is proof, 
The foe, invulnerable still. 
Foiled his wild rage by steady skill; 
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 399 

Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
And backward borne upon the lea. 
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. 

XVI 

* Now yield thee, or by Him who made 
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my 

blade ! ' 

* Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! 
Let recreant yield, who fears to die.' 
Like adder darting from his coil, 
Like wolf that dashes through the toil. 
Like mountain-cat who guards her young. 
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung; 410 
Received, but recked not of a wound. 
And locked his arms his foeman round. — 
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! 

No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel 
Through bars of brass and triple steel ! 
They tug, they strain ! down, down they go. 
The Gael above, Fitz-James below. 
The Chieftain's gripe his throat com- 
pressed, 



His knee was planted on his breast; 42c 
His clotted locks he backward threw, 
Across his brow his hand he drew. 
From blood and mist to clear his sight. 
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright ! 
But hate and fury ill supplied 
The stream of life's exhausted tide. 
And all too late the advantage came. 
To turn the odds of deadly game ; 
For, while the dagger gleamed on high. 
Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and 
eye. 430 

Down came the blow ! but in the heath 
The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 
The struggling foe may now unclasp 
The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; 
Unwounded from the dreadful close, 
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 

XVII 

He faltered thanks to Heaven for life, 
Redeemed, unhoped, from desperate strife: 
Next on his foe his look he cast. 
Whose every gasp appeared his last; 440 
In Roderick's gore he dipped the braid, — 

* Poor Blanche ! thy wrongs are dearly 

paid; 
Yet with thy foe must die, or live. 
The praise that faith and valor give.' 
With that he blew a bugle note. 
Undid the collar from his throat, 
Unbonneted, and by the wave 
Sat down his brow and hands to lave. 
Then faint afar are heard the feet 
Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet; 450 

The sounds increase, and now are seen 
Four mounted squires in Lincoln green; 
Two who bear lance, and two who lead 
By loosened rein a saddled steed; 
Each onward held his headlong course. 
And by Fitz-James reined up his horse, — 
With wonder viewed the bloody spot, — 

* Exclaim not, gallants ! question not. — 
You, Herbert and Luffness, alight. 

And bind the wounds of yonder knight; 460 
Let the gray palfrey bear his weight, 
We destined for a fairer freight. 
And bring him on to Stirling straight; 
I will before at better speed. 
To seek fresh horse and fitting weed. 
The sun rides high : — I must be boune 
To see the archer-game at noon; 
But lightly Bayard clears the lea. — 
De Vaux and Herries, follow me. 



CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT 



19s 



XVIII 

* Stand, Bayard, stand!' — the steed 

obeyed, 47° 

With arching neck and bended head, 
And glancing eye and quivering ear. 
As if he loved his lord to hear. 
No foot Fitz-James in stirrup stayed. 
No grasp upon the saddle laid. 
But wreathed his left hand in the mane. 
And lightly bounded from the plain. 
Turned on the horse his armed heel, 
And stirred his courage with the steel. 
Bounded the fiery steed in air, 480 

The rider sat erect and fair, 
Then like a bolt from steel crossbow 
Forth launched, along the plain they go. 
They dashed that rapid torrent through. 
And up Carhonie's hill they flew; 
Still at the gallop pricked the Knight, 
His merrymen followed as they might. 
Along thy banks, swift Teith, they ride. 
And in the race they mock thy tide; 
Torry and Lendrick now are past, 490 

And Deanstown lies behind them cast; 
They rise, the bannered towers of Doune, 
They sink in distant woodland soon; 
Blair-Drummond sees the hoofs strike fire, 
They sweep like breeze through Ochter- 

tyre; 
They mark just glance and disappear 
The lofty brow of ancient Kier; 
They bathe their coursers' sweltering sides. 
Dark Forth ! amid thy sluggish tides. 
And on the opposing shore take ground, 500 
With plash, with scramble, and with bound. 
Right-hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig- 

Forth ! 
And soon the bulwark of the North, 
Gray Stirling, with her towers and town, 
Upon their fleet career look down. 

XIX 

As up the flinty path they strained. 
Sudden his steed the leader reined; 
A signal to his squire he flung, 
Who instant to his stirrup sprung: — 

* Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman 

gray, 510 

Who townward holds the rocky way. 
Of stature tall and poor array ? 
Mark'st thou the firm yet active stride, 
With which he scales the mountain side ? 
Know'st thou from whence he comes, or 

whom ? ' 
^ No, by my word ; — a burly groom 



He seems, who in the field or chase 
A baron's train would nobly grace ' — 

* Out, out, De Vaux ! can fear supply, 
And jealousy, no sharper eye ? 520 
Afar, ere to the hill he drew, 

That stately form and step I knew; 
Like form in Scotland is not seen. 
Treads not such step on Scottish green. 
'T is James of Douglas, by Saint Serle ! 
The uncle of the banished Earl. 
Away, away, to court, to show 
The near approach of dreaded foe: 
The King must stand upon his guard; 
Douglas and he must meet prepared.' 530 
Then right-hand wheeled their steeds, and 

straight 
They won the Castle's postern gate. 

XX 

The Douglas who had bent his way 
From Cambus-kenneth's abbey gray, 
Now, as he climbed the rocky shelf. 
Held sad communion with himself: — 

* Yes ! all is true my fears could frame; 
A prisoner lies the noble Graeme, 

And fiery Roderick soon will feel 
The vengeance of the royal steel. 540 

I, only I, can ward their fate, — 
God grant the ransom come not late ! 
The Abbess hath her promise given. 
My child shall be the bride of Heaven; — 
Be pardoned one repining tear ! 
For He who gave her knows how dear, 
How excellent ! — but that is by. 
And now my business is — to die. — 
Ye towers ! within whose circuit dread 
A Douglas by his sovereign bled; 550 

And thou, O sad and fatal mound ! 
That oft hast heard the death-axe sound, 
As on the noblest of the land 
Fell the stern headsman's bloody hand, — 
The dungeon, block, and nameless tomb 
Prepare — for Douglas seeks his doom ! 
But hark ! what blithe and jolly peal 
Makes the Franciscan steeple reel ? 
And see ! upon the crowded street. 
In motley groups what masquers 
meet ! 560 

Banner and pageant, pipe and drum. 
And merry morrice-dancers come. 
I guess, by all tliis quaint array. 
The burghers hold their sports to-day. 
James will be there; he loves such show, 
Where the good yeoman bends his bow, 
And the tough wrestler foils his foe, 



196 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



As well as where, in proud career, 

The high-born tilter shivers spear. 

I '11 follow to the Castle-park, 570 

And play my prize; — King James shall 

mark 
If age has tamed these sinews stark, 
Whose force so oft in happier days 
His boyish wonder loved to praise.' 

XXI 

The Castle gates were open flung. 

The quivering drawbridge rocked and 

rung. 
And echoed loud the flinty street 
Beneath the courser's clattering feet, 
As slowly down the steep descent 
Fair Scotland's King and nobles went, 580 
While all along the crowded way 
Was jubilee and loud huzza. 
And ever James was bending low 
To his white jennet's saddle-bow, 
Doffing his cap to city dame, 
Who smiled and blushed for pride and 

shame. 
And well the simperer might be vain, — 
He chose the fairest of the train. 
Gravely he greets each city sire. 
Commends each pageant's quaint attire, 590 
Gives to the dancers thanks aloud. 
And smiles and nods upon the crowd, 
Who rend the heavens with their ac- 
claims, — 
*Long live the Commons' King, King 

James ! ' 
Behind the King thronged peer and knight, 
And noble dame and damsel bright, 
Whose fiery steeds ill brooked the stay 
Of the steep street and crowded way. 
But in the train you might discern 
Dark lowering brow and visage stern; 600 
There nobles mourned their pride restrained, 
And the mean burgher's joys disdained; 
And chiefs, who, hostage for their clan, 
W^ere each from home a banished man, 
There thought upon their own gray tower. 
Their waving woods, their feudal power, 
And deemed themselves a shameful part 
Of pageant which they cursed in heart. 

XXII 

Now, in the Castle-park, drew out 
Their checkered bands the joyous rout. 610 
There morricers, with bell at heel 
And blade in hand, their mazes wheel; 
But chief, beside the butts, there stand 



Bold Robin Hood and all his band, — 
Friar Tuck with quarterstaff and cowl, 
Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl. 
Maid Marian, fair as ivory bone. 
Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John; 
Their bugles challenge all that will. 
In archery to prove their skill. 620 

The Douglas bent a bow of might, — 
His first shaft centred in the white, 
And when in turn he shot again. 
His second split the first in twain. 
From the King's hand must Douglas take 
A silver dart, the archer's stake; 
Fondly he watched, with watery eye. 
Some answering glance of sympathy, — 
No kind emotion made reply ! 
Indifferent as to archer wight, 630 

The monarch gave the arrow bright. 



XXIII 



i 



Now, clear the ring ! for, hand to hand. 

The manly wrestlers take their stand. 

Two o'er the rest superior rose. 

And proud demanded mightier foes, — 

Nor called in vain, for Douglas came. — M 

For life is Hugh of Larbert lame; ^i 

Scarce better John of Alloa's fare. 

Whom senseless home his comrades bare. 

Prize of the wrestling match, the King 640 

To Douglas gave a golden ring. 

While coldly glanced his eye of blue, 

As frozen drop of wintry dew. 

Douglas would speak, but in his breast 

His struggling soul his words suppressed; 

Indignant then he turned him where 

Their arms the brawny yeomen bare. 

To hurl the massive bar in air. 

When each his utmost strength had shown. 

The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone 650 

From its deep bed, then heaved it high. 

And sent the fragment through the sky 

A rood beyond the farthest mark; 

And still in Stirling's royal park. 

The gray-haired sires, who know the past. 

To strangers point the Douglas cast. 

And moralize on the decay 

Of Scottish strength in modern day. 

XXIV 

The vale with loud applauses rang. 
The Ladies' Bock sent back the clang. 660 
The King, with look unmoved, bestowed 
A purse well filled with pieces broad. 
Indignant smiled the Douglas proud. 
And threw the gold among the crowd, 



CANTO FIFTH: THE COMBAT 



197 



Who now with anxious wonder scan, 
And sharper glance, the dark gray man; 
Till whispers rose among the throDg, 
That heart so free, and hand so strong, 
Must to the Douglas blood belong. 669 

The old men marked and shook the head. 
To see his hair with silver spread. 
And winked aside, and told each son 
Of feats upon the English done, 
Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand 
Was exiled from his native land. 
The women praised his stately form. 
Though wrecked by many a winter's storm; 
The youth with awe and wonder saw 
His strength surpassing Nature's law. 
Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd, 680 
Till murmurs rose to clamors loud. 
But not a glance from that proud ring 
Of peers who circled round the King 
With Douglas held communion kind, 
Or called the banished man to mind; 
No, not from those who at the chase 
Once held his side the honored place, 
Begirt his board, and in the field 
Found safety underneath his shield; 
For he whom royal eyes disown, 690 

When was his form to courtiers known ! 

XXV 

The Monarch saw the gambols flag. 
And bade let loose a gallant stag. 
Whose pride, the holiday to crown. 
Two favorite greyhounds should pull down, 
That venison free and Bourdeaux wine 
Might serve the archery to dine. 
But Lufra, — whom from Douglas' side 
Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide. 
The fleetest hound in all the North,* — 700 
Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth. 
She left the royal hounds midway. 
And dashing on the antlered prey, 
Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank. 
And deep the flowing life-blood drank. 
The king's stout huntsman saw the sport 
By strange intruder broken short, 
Came up, and with his leash unbound 
In anger struck the noble hound. 
The Douglas had endured, that morn, 710 
The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn. 
And last, and worst to spirit proud, 
Had borne the pity of the crowd; 
But Lufra had been fondly bred, 
To share his board, to watch his bed, 
And oft would Ellen Lufra's neck 
In maiden glee with garlands deck ; 



They were such playmates that with name 

Of Lufra Ellen's image came. 

His stifled wrath is brimming high, 72a 

In darkened brow and flashing eye; 

As waves before the bark divide. 

The crowd gave way before his stride; 

Needs but a buffet and no more. 

The groom lies senseless in his gore. 

Such blow no other hand could deal, 

Though gauntleted in glove of steel. 

XXVI 

Then clamored loud the royal train, 
And brandished swords and staves amain. 
But stern the Baron's warning: *Back ! 730 
Back, on your lives, ye menial pack ! 
Beware the Douglas. — Yes ! behold. 
King James I The Douglas, doomed of 

old. 
And vainly sought for near and far, 
A victim to atone the war, 
A willing victim, now attends. 
Nor craves thy grace but for his friends.' — 

* Thus is my clemency repaid ? 
Presumptuous Lord ! ' the Monarch said: 

* Of thy misproud ambitious clan, 740 
Thou, James of Bothwell, wert the man, 
The only man, in whom a foe 

My woman-mercy would not know; 
But shall a Monarch's presence brook 
Injurious blow and haughty look ? — 
What ho ! the Captain of our Guard ! 
Give the offender fitting ward. — 
Break off the sports ! ' — for tumult rose. 
And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows, — 
< Break off the sports ! ' he said and 
frowned, 750 

* And bid our horsemen clear the ground.' 

XXVII 

Then uproar wild and misarray 
Marred the fair form of festal day. 
The horsemen pricked among the crowd, 
Repelled by threats and insult loud; 
To earth are borne the old and weak. 
The timorous fly, the women shriek; 
With flint, with shaft, with staff, with bar. 
The hardier urge tumultuous war. 
At once round Douglas darkly sweep 760 
The royal spears in circle deep, 
And slowly scale the pathway steep. 
While on the roar in thunder pour 
The rabble with disordered roar. 
With grief the noble Douglas saw 
The Commons rise against the law, 



198 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



And to the leading soldier said: 

* Sir John of Hyndf ord, 't was my blade, 
That knighthood on thy shoulder laid ; 
For that good deed permit me then 770 
A word with these misguided men. — 

XXVIII 

* Hear, gentle friends, ere yet for mo 
Ye break the bands of fealty. 

My life, my honor, and my cause, 

I tender free to Scotland's laws. 

Are these so weak as must require 

The aid of your misguided ire ? 

Or if I suffer causeless wrong, 

Is then my selfish rage so strong. 

My sense of public weal so low, 780 

That, for mean vengeance on a foe. 

Those cords of love I should unbind 

Which knit my country and my kind ? 

O no ! Believe, in yonder tower 

It will not soothe my captive hour, 

To know those spears our foes should dread 

For me in kindred gore are red: 

To know, in fruitless brawl begun, 

For me that mother wails her son. 

For me that widow's mate expires, 790 

For me that orphans weep their sires, 

That patriots mourn insulted laws. 

And curse the Douglas for the cause. 

O let your patience ward such ill. 

And keep your right to love me still ! * 

XXIX 

The crowd's wild fury sunk again 

In tears, as tempests melt in rain. 

With lifted hands and eyes, they prayed 

For blessings on his generous head 

Who for his country felt alone, 800 

And prized her blood beyond his own. 

Old men upon the verge of life 

Blessed him who stayed the civil strife; 

And mothers held their babes on high. 

The self-devoted Chief to spy, 

Triumphant over wrongs and ire. 

To whom the prattlers owed a sire. 

Even the rough soldier's heart was moved; 

As if behind some bier beloved, 

With trailing arms and drooping head, 810 

The Douglas up the hill he led, 

And at the Castle's battled verge. 

With sighs resigned his honored charge. 

XXX 

The offended Monarch rode apart, 
With bitter thought and swelling heart, 



And would not now vouchsafe again 
Through Stirling streets to lead his train. 
* O Lenox, who would wish to rule 
This changeling crowd, this common fool ? 
Hear'st thou,' he said, * the loud acclaim 820 
With which they shout the Douglas name ? 
With like acclaim the vulgar throat 
Strained for King James their morning 

note; 
With like acclaim they hailed the day 
When first I broke the Douglas sway; 
And like acclaim would Douglas greet 
If he could hurl me from my seat. 
Who o'er the herd would wish to reign, 
Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain ? 
Vain as the leaf upon the stream, 830 

And fickle as a changeful dream; 
Fantastic as a woman's mood, 
And fierce as Frenzy's fevered blood. 
Thou many-headed monster-thing, 
O who would wish to be thy king ? — 



XXXI 

* But soft ! what messenger of speed 
Spurs hitherward his panting steed ? 
I guess his cognizance afar — 
What from our cousin, John of Mar ? ' 

* He prays, my liege, your sports keep 

bound 840 

Within the safe and guarded ground; 
For some foul purpose yet unknown, — 
Most sure for evil to the throne, — 
The outlawed Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
Has summoned his rebellious crew; 
'T is said, in James of Bothwell's aid 
These loose banditti stand arrayed. 
The Earl of Mar this morn from Doune 
To break their muster marched, and soon 
Your Grace will hear of battle fought; 850 
But earnestly the Earl besought. 
Till for such danger he provide, 
With scanty train you will not ride.' 

XXXII 

* Thou warn'st me I have done amiss, — 
I should have earlier looked to this; 

I lost it in this bustling day. — 
Retrace with speed thy former way; 
Spare not for spoiling of thy steed. 
The best of mine shall be thy meed. 
Say to our faithful Lord of Mar, 86a 

We do forbid the intended war; 
Roderick this morn in single fight 
Was made our prisoner by a knight, 
And Douglas hath himself and cause 



I 



CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM 



[99 



Submitted to our kingdom's laws. 

The tidings of their leaders lost 

Will soon dissolve the mountain host, 

Nor would we that the vulgar feel, 

For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel. 

Bear Mar our message, Braco, fly ! ' 870 

He turned his steed, — * My liege, I hie, 

Yet ere I cross this lily lawn 

I fear the broadswords will be drawn,' 

The turf the flying courser spurned. 

And to his towers the King returned. 

XXXIII 
111 with King Jameses mood that day 
Suited gay feast and minstrel lay; 
Soon were dismissed the courtly throng. 
And soon cut short the festal song. 
Nor less upon the saddened town 880 

The evening sunk in sorrow down. 
The burghers spoke of civil jar, 
Of rumored feuds and mountain war. 
Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, 
All up in arms; — the Douglas too. 
They mourned him pent within the hold, 
* Where stout Earl William was of old.' — 
And there his word the speaker stayed. 
And finger on his lip he laid. 
Or pointed to his dagger blade. 890 

But jaded horsemen from the west 
At evening to the Castle pressed, 
And busy talkers said they bore 
Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore ; 
At noon the deadly fray begun, 
And lasted till the set of sun. 
Thus giddy rumor shook the town. 
Till closed the Night her pennons brown. 



CANTO SIXTH 



THE GUARD-ROOM 



The sun, awakening, through the smoky air 

Of the dark city casts a sullen glance. 
Rousing each caitiff to his task of care. 

Of sinful man the sad inheritance; 
Summoning revellers from the lagging 
dance. 
Scaring the prowling robber to his den ; 
Gilding on battled tower the warder's 
lance. 
And warning student pale to leave his 
pen, 
And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind 
nurse of men. 



What various scenes, and O, what scenes 
of woe, 10 

Are witnessed by that red and strug- 
gling beam ! 
The fevered patient, from his pallet low. 
Through crowded hospital beholds it 
stream ; 
The ruined maiden trembles at its gleam. 
The debtor wakes to thought of gyve 
and jail, 
The love-lorn wretch starts from torment- 
ing dream; 
The wakeful mother, by the glimmering 
pale. 
Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes 
his feeble wail. 

II 
At dawn the towers of Stirling rang 
With soldier-step and weapon-clang, 20 
While drums with rolling note foretell 
Relief to weary sentinel. 
Through narrow loop and casement barred. 
The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, 
And, struggling with the smoky air. 
Deadened the torches' yellow glare. 
In comfortless alliance shone 
The lights through arch of blackened stone. 
And showed wild shapes in garb of war. 
Faces deformed with beard and scar, 30 
All haggard from the midnight watch. 
And fevered with the stern debauch; 
For the oak table's massive board. 
Flooded with wine, with fragments stored. 
And beakers drained, and cups o'erthrown. 
Showed in what sport the night had flown. 
Some, weary, snored on floor and bench; 
Some labored still their thirst to quench; 
Some, chilled with watching, spread their 

hands 
O'er the huge chimney's dying brands, 40 
While round them, or beside them flung. 
At every step their harness rung. 

Ill 

These drew not for their fields the sword, 
Like tenants of a feudal lord, 
Nor owned the patriarchal claim 
Of Chieftain in their leader's name; 
Adventurers they, from far who roved, 
To live by battle which they loved. 
Tliere the Italian's clouded face. 
The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace; 50 
The mountain-loving Switzer there 
More freely breathed in mountain-air; 
The Fleming there despised the soil 



200 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



That paid so ill the laborer's toil; 

Their rolls showed French and German 

name; 
And merry England's exiles came, 
To share, with ill-concealed disdain. 
Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain. 
All brave in arms, well trained to wield 
The heavy halberd, brand, and shield; 60 
In camps licentious, wild, and bold; 
In pillage fierce and uncontrolled; 
And now, by holy tide and feast. 
From rules of discipline released. 

IV 

They held debate of bloody fray, 
Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray. 
Fierce was their speech, and mid their 

words 
Their hands oft grappled to their swords; 
Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear 
Of wounded comrades groaning near, 70 
Whose mangled limbs and bodies gored 
Bore token of the mountain sword, 
Though, neighboring to the Court of 

Guard, 
Their prayers and feverish wails were 

heard, — 
Sad burden to the ruffian joke. 
And savage oath by fury spoke ! — 
At length up started John of Brent, 
A yeoman from the banks of Trent; 
A stranger to respect or fear. 
In peace a chaser of the deer, 80 

In host a hardy mutineer. 
But still the boldest of the crew 
When deed of danger was to do. 
He grieved that day their games cut 

short. 
And marred the dicer's brawling sport, 
And shouted loud, * Renew the bowl ! 
And, while a merry catch I troll. 
Let each the buxom chorus bear. 
Like brethren of the brand and spear.' 



soldier's song 

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and 

Poule 90 

Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny 

brown bowl, 
That there 's wrath and despair in the 

jolly black-jack. 
And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of 

sack; 



Yet whoop, Barnaby ! off with thy liquor. 
Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar ! 

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip 
The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear 

lip. 
Says that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief 

so sly. 
And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry 

black eye; gg 

Yet whoop. Jack ! kiss Gillian the quicker, 
Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the 

vicar I 

Our vicar thus preaches, — and why should 

he not ? 
For the dues of his cure are the placket 

and pot; 
And 't is right of his office poor laymen to 

lurch 
Who infringe the domains of our good 

Mother Church. 
Yet whoop, bully-boys ! off with your 

liquor. 
Sweet Marjorie 's the word, and a fig for 

the vicar ! 



VI 

The warder's challenge, heard without, 

Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout. 

A soldier to the portal went, — na 

* Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent; 
And — beat for jubilee the drum ! — 
A maid and minstrel with him come.' 
Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarred, 
Was entering now the Court of Guard, 
A harper with him, and, in plaid 

All muffled close, a mountain maid. 
Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view 
Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 

* What news?' they roared: — *I only 

know, 120 

From noon till eve we fought with foe, m] 
As wild and as untamable H! 

As the rude mountains where they dwell; 
On both sides store of blood is lost, 
Nor much success can either boast.' — 

* But whence thy captives, friend ? such 

spoil 
As theirs must needs reward thy toil. 
Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp; 
Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp ! 
Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, 130 
The leader of a juggler band.' 



CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM 



201 



140 



150 



VII 

* No, comrade ; — no such fortune mine. 
After the fight these sought our line, 
That aged harper and the girl. 

And, having audience of the Earl, 
Mar bade I should purvey them steed. 
And bring them hitherward with speed. 
Forbear your mirth and rude alarm. 
For none shall do them shame or harm. — ' 

* Hear ye his boast ? ' cried John of 

Brent, 
Ever to strife and jangling bent; 

* Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, 
And yet the jealous niggard grudge 
To pay the forester his fee ? 
I '11 have my share howe'er it be, 
Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.' 
Bertram his forward step withstood; 
And, burning in his vengeful mood, 
Old Allan, though unfit for strife. 
Laid hand upon his dagger-knife ; 
But Ellen boldly stepped between. 
And dropped at once the tartan screen: 
So, from his morning cloud, appears 
The sun of May through summer tears. 
The savage soldiery, amazed. 
As on descended angel gazed; 
Even hardy Brent, abashed and tamed, 
Stood half admiring, half ashamed. 



VIII 

Boldly she spoke: * Soldiers, attend ! 
My father was the soldier's friend, 160 

Cheered him in camps, in marches led, 
And with him in the battle bled. 
Not from the valiant or the strong 
Should exile's daughter sufEer wrong.' 
Answered De Brent, most forward still 
In every feat or good or ill : 

* I shame me of the part I played; 
And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid ! 
An outlaw I by forest laws. 

And merry Needwood knows the cause. 170 
Poor Rose, — if Rose be living now,' — 
He wiped his iron eye and brow, — 

• Must bear such age, I think, as thou. — 
Hear ye, my mates ! I go to call 

The Captain of our watch to hall: 
There lies my halberd on the floor; 
And he that steps my halberd o'er. 
To do the maid injurious part, 
My shaft shall quiver in his lieart ! 
Beware loose speech, or jesting rough; 180 
JTe all know John de Brent. Enough.' 



IX 

Their Captain came, a gallant young, — 
Of Tullibardine's house he sprung, — 
Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight; 
Gay was his mien, his humor light. 
And, though by courtesy controlled. 
Forward his speech, his bearing bold. 
The high-born maiden ill could brook 
The scanning of his curious look 
And dauntless eye: — and yet, in sooth, 190 
Young Lewis was a generous youth; 
But Ellen's lovely face and mien, 
111 suited to the garb and scene. 
Might lightly bear construction strange, 
And give loose fancy scope to range. 

* Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid ! 
Come ye to seek a champion's aid, 

On palfrey white, with harper hoar. 
Like errant damosel of yore ? 
Does thy high quest a knight require, 200 
Or may the venture suit a squire ? ' 
Her dark eye flashed; — she paused and 
sighed: — 

* O what have I to do with pride ! — 
Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and 

strife, 
A suppliant for a father's life, 
I crave an audience of the King. 
Behold, to back my suit, a ring, 
The royal pledge of grateful claims. 
Given by the Monarch to Fitz- James.' 



The signet-ring young Lewis took 210 

With deep respect and altered look. 

And said: * This ring our duties own; 

And pardon, if to worth unknown, 

In semblance mean obscurely veiled. 

Lady, in aught my folly failed. 

Soon as the day flings wide his gates, 

The King shall know what suitor waits. 

Please you meanwhile in fitting bower 

Repose you till his waking hour; 

Female attendance shall obey 22c 

Your best, for service or array. 

Permit I marshal you the way.* 

But, ere she followed, with the grace 

And open bounty of her race. 

She bade her slender purse be shared 

Among the soldiers of the guard. 

The rest with thanks their guerdon took, 

Hut Brent, with shy and awkward look. 

On the reluctant maiden's hold 229 

Forced bluntly back the proffered gold: — 

* Forgive a haughty English heart, 



202 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



And O, forget its ruder part ! 

The vacant purse shall be my share, 

Which in my barret-cap I '11 bear, 

Perchance, in jeopardy of war, 

Where gayer crests may keep afar.' 

With thanks — 'twas all she could — the 

maid 
His rugged courtesy repaid. 

XI 

When Ellen forth with Lewis went, 
Allan made suit to John of Brent: — 240 

* My lady safe, O let your grace 
Give me to see my master's face ! 
His minstrel I, — to share his doom 
Bound from the cradle to the tomb. 
Tenth in descent, since first my sires 
Waked for his noble house their lyres. 
Nor one of all the race was known 
But prized its weal above their own. 
With the Chief's birth begins our care; 
Our harp must soothe the infant heir, 250 
Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace 
His earliest feat of field or chase; 

In peace, in war, our rank we keep, 
We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep, 
Nor leave him till we pour our verse — 
A doleful tribute ! — o'er his hearse. 
Then let me share his captive lot; 
It is my right, — deny it not ! ' 

* Little we reck,' said John of Brent, 

* We Southern men, of long descent; 260 
Nor wot we how a name — a word — 
Makes clansmen vassals to a lord: 

Yet kind my noble landlord's part, — 
God bless the house of Beaudesert ! 
And, but I loved to drive the deer 
More than to guide the laboring steer, 
I had not dwelt an outcast here. 
Come, good old Minstrel, follow me; 
Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.' 

XII 

Then, from a rusted iron hook, 270 

A bunch of ponderous keys he took. 
Lighted a torch, and Allan led 
Through grated arch and passage dread. 
Portals they passed, where, deep within. 
Spoke prisoner's moan and fetters' din; 
Through rugged vaults, where, loosely 

stored. 
Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's 

sword. 
And many a hideous engine grim. 
For wrenching joint and crushing limb, 



By artists formed who deemed it shame 280 
And sin to give their work a name. 
They halted at a low-browed porch, 
And Brent to Allan gave the torch, 
While bolt and chain he backward rolled, 
And made the bar unhasp its hold. 
They entered : — 't was a prison-room 
Of stern security and gloom, 
Yet not a dungeon ; for the day 
Through lofty gratings found its way, 
And rude and antique garniture 290 

Decked the sad walls and oaken floor, 
Such as the rugged days of old 
Deemed fit for captive noble's hold. 

* Here,' said De Brent, * thou mayst re- 

main 
Till the Leech visit him again. 
Strict is his charge, the warders tell, 
To tend the noble prisoner well.' 
Retiring then the bolt he drew. 
And the lock's murmurs growled anew. 
Boused at the sound, from lowly bed 300 
A captive feebly raised his head; 
The wondering Minstrel looked, and 

knew — 
Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu ! 
For, come from where Clan- Alpine fought. 
They, erring, deemed the Chief he sought. 

XIII 

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore 

Shall never stem the billows more, 

Deserted by her gallant band. 

Amid the breakers lies astrand, — 

So on his couch lay Roderick Dhu ! 310 

And oft his fevered limbs he threw 

In toss abrupt, as when her sides 

Lie rocking in the advancing tides, 

That shake her frame with ceaseless beat, 

Yet cannot heave her from her seat; — 

O, how unlike her course at sea ! 

Or his free step on hill and lea ! — 

Soon as the Minstrel he could scan, — 

* What of thy lady ? — of my clan ? — 3 19 
My mother ? — Douglas ? — tell me all ! 
Have they been ruined in my fall ? 

Ah, yes ! or wherefore art thou here ? 
Yet speak, — speak boldly, — do not fear.' 
For Allan, who his mood well knew. 
Was choked with grief and terror too. 

* Who fought ? — who fled ? — Old man, 

be brief; — 
Some might, — for they had lost their 

Chief. 
Who basely live ? — who bravely died ? ' 



CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM 



203 



* O, calm thee, Chief ! ' the Minstrel cried, 

* Ellen is safe ! ' * For that thank Heaven ! ' 

* And hopes are for the Douglas given ; — 
The Lady Margaret, too, is well; 332 
And, for thy clan, — on field or fell, 

Has never harp of minstrel told 
Of combat fought so true and bold. 
Thy stately Pine is yet unbent. 
Though many a goodly bough is rent.' 

XIV 
The Chieftain reared his form on high, 
And fever's fire was in his eye; 
But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 340 

Checkered his swarthy brow and cheeks. 

* Hark, Minstrel ! I have heard thee play. 
With measure bold on festal day. 

In yon lone isle, — again where ne'er 
Shall harper play or warrior hear ! — 
That stirring air that peals on high. 
O'er Dermid's race our victory. — 
Strike it ! — and then, — for well thou 

canst, — 
Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced. 
Fling me the picture of the fight, 350 

When met my clan the Saxon might. 
I '11 listen, till my fancy hears 
The clang of swords, the crash of spears ! 
These grates, these walls, shall vanish then 
For the fair field of fighting men, 
And my free spirit burst away. 
As if it soared from battle fray.' 
The trembling Bard with awe obeyed, — 
Slow on the harp his hand he laid; 
But soon remembrance of the sight 360 

He witnessed from the mountain's height. 
With what old Bertram told at night. 
Awakened the full power of song. 
And bore him in career along; — 
As shallop launched on river's tide. 
That slow and fearful leaves the side. 
But, when it feels the middle stream. 
Drives downward swift as lightning's 

beam. 

XV 
BATTLE OF BEAl' AN DUINB 

* The Minstrel came once more to view 
The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 370 
For ere he parted he would say 
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray — 
Where shall he find, in foreign land, 

So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! — 
There is no breeze upon the fern. 
No ripple on the lake, 



Upon her eyry nods the erne, 

The deer has sought the brake ; 
The small birds will not sing aloud. 

The springing trout lies still, 380 

So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud. 
That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 

Benledi's distant hill. 
Is it the thunder's solemn sound. 
That mutters deep and dread, 
Or echoes from the groaning ground 

The warrior's measured tread ? 
Is it the lightning's quivering glance 

That on the thicket streams. 
Or do they flash on spear and lance 390 
The sun's retiring beams ? — 
I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
I see the Moray's silver star, 
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war. 
That up the lake comes winding far ! 
To hero boune for battle-strife, 

Or bard of martial lay, 
'T were worth ten years of peaceful 
life. 
One glance at their array ! 

XVI 

* Their light -armed archers far and 
near 400 

Surveyed the tangled ground. 
Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, 

A twilight forest frowned. 
Their barded horsemen in the rear 

The stern battalia crowned. 
No symbol clashed, no clarion rang. 

Still were the pipe and drum ; 
Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, 

The sullen march was dumb. 
There breathed no wind their crests to 
shake, 410 

Or wave their flags abroad; 
Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, 

That shadowed o'er their road. 
Their vaward scouts no tidings bring. 

Can rouse no lurking foe, 
Nor spy a trace of living tiling, 

Save when they stirred the roe; 
The host moves like a deep-sea wave, 
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, 
High-swelling, dark, and slow. 42a 

The lake is passed, and now they gain 
A narrow and a broken plain, 
Bofore the Trosachs' rugged Jaws; 
And here the horse and spearmen pause, 
While, to explore the dangerous glen, 
Divo through the pass the archer-men. 



204 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



XVII 

* At once there rose so wild a yell 
Within that dark and narrow dell, 

As all the fiends from heaven that fell 
Had pealed the banner-cry of hell ! 430 

Forth from the pass in tumult driven, 
Like chaff before the wind of heaven. 

The archery appear: 
For life ! for life ! their flight they 

ply — 

And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, 
And plaids and bonnets waving high. 
And broadswords flashing to the sky, 

Are maddening in the rear. 
Onward they drive in dreadful race, 

Pursuers and pursued; 440 

Before that tide of flight and chase. 
How shall it keep its rooted place, 

The spearmen's twilight wood ? — 
" Down, down," cried Mar, " your lances 
down ! 

Bear back both friend and foe ! " — 
Like reeds before the tempest's frown, 
That serried grove of lances brown 

At once lay levelled low; 
And closely shouldering side to side, 
The bristling ranks the onset bide. — 450 
" We '11 quell the savage mountaineer, 

As their Tinchel cows the game ! 
They come as fleet as forest deer. 

We '11 drive them back as tame." 

XVIII 

* Bearing before them in their course 
The relics of the archer force, 

Like wave with crest of sparkling foam. 
Right onward did Clan- Alpine come. 
Above the tide, each broadsword bright 
Was brandishing like beam of light, 460 

Each targe was dark below; 
And with the ocean's mighty swing, 
When heaving to the tempest's wing. 
They hurled them on the foe. 
I heard the lance's shivering crash, 
As when the whirlwind rends the ash; 
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, 
As if a hundred anvils rang ! 
But Moray wheeled his rearward rank 
Of horsemen on Clan- Alpine's flank, — 470 
" My banner-men, advance ! 
I see," he cried, " their column shake. 
Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake. 

Upon them with the lance ! " — 
The horsemen dashed among the rout, 
As deer break through the broom; 



Their steeds are stout, their swords are 
out, 
They soon make lightsome room. 
Clan- Alpine's best are backward borne — 
Where, where was Roderick then ! 480 
One blast upon his bugle-horn 

Were worth a thousand men. 
And refluent through the pass of fear 

The battle's tide was poured; 
Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, 

Vanished the mountain-sword. 
As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, 

Receives her roaring linn. 
As the dark caverns of the deep 

Suck the wild whirlpool in, 490 

So did the deep and darksome pass 
Devour the battle's mingled mass; 
None linger now upon the plain, 
Save those who ne'er shall fight again. 

XIX 

* Now westward rolls the battle's din, 
That deep and doubling pass within. — 
Minstrel, away ! the work of fate 
Is bearing on; its issue wait. 
Where the rude Trosachs' dread defile 
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. 500 

Gray Benvenue I soon repassed. 
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. 
The sun is set ; — the clouds are met, 

The lowering scowl of heaven 
An inky hue of livid blue 
To the deep lake has given; 
Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen 
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk again. 
I heeded not the eddying surge, 
Mine eye but saw the Trosachs' gorge, 510 
Mine ear but heard that sullen sound. 
Which like an earthquake shook the 

ground. 
And spoke the stern and desperate strife 
That parts not but with parting life. 
Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll 
The dirge of many a passing soul. 

Nearer it comes — the dim-wood glen 
The martial flood disgorged again, 

But not in mingled tide; 
The plaided warriors of the North 520 
High on the mountain thunder forth 

And overhang its side. 
While by the lake below appears 
The darkening cloud of Saxon spears. 
At weary bay each shattered band. 
Eying their foemen, sternly stand; 
Their banners stream like tattered sail, 



CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM 



205 



That flings its fragments to the gale, 
And broken arms and disarray 
Marked the fell havoc of the day. 



530 



XX 



' Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, 
The Saxons stood in sullen trance. 
Till Moray pointed with his lance, 

And cried : " Behold yon isle ! — 
See ! none are left to guard its strand 
But women weak, that wring the hand: 
'T is there of yore the robber band 

Their booty wont to pile ; — 
My purse, with bonnet-pieces store, 
To him will swim a bow-shot o'er, 540 

And loose a shallop from the shore. 
Lightly we '11 tame the war- wolf then. 
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den." 
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung. 
On earth his casque and corselet rung. 

He plunged him in the wave : — 
All saw the deed, — the purpose knew, 
And to their clamors Benvenue 

A mingled echo gave; 
The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, 550 
The helpless females scream for fear, 
And yells for rage the mountaineer. 
'T was then, as by the outcry riven, 
Poured down at once the lowering heaven: 
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast, 
Her billows reared their snowy crest. 
Well for the swimmer swelled they high, 
To mar the Highland marksman's eye ; 
For round him showered, mid rain and hail, 
The vengeful arrows of the Gael. 560 

In vain. — He nears the isle — and lo ! 
His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
Just then a flash of lightning came. 
It tinged the waves and strand with flame; 
I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame. 
Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
A naked dirk gleamed in her hand: — 
It darkened, — but amid the moan 
Of waves I heard a dying groan; — 
Another flash ! — the spearman floats 570 
A weltering corse beside the boats, 
And the stern matron o'er him stood. 
Her hand and dagger streaming blood. 

XXI 

*" Revenge I revenge !" the Saxons cried, 

The Gaels' exulting shout replied. 

Despite the elemental rage. 

Again they hurried to engage; 

But, ere they closed iu desperate figbt| 



Bloody with spurring came a knight, 
Sprung from his horse, and from a crag 580 
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. 
Clarion and trumpet by his side 
Rung forth a truce-note high and wide, 
While, in the Monarch's name, afar 
A herald's voice forbade the war, 
For Bothwell's lord and Roderick bold 
Were both, he said, in captive hold.' — 
But here the lay made sudden stand. 
The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand ! 
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy 590 

How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy: 
At first, the Chieftain, to the chime. 
With lifted hand kept feeble time ; 
That motion ceased, — yet feeling strong 
Varied his look as changed the song; 
At length, no more his deafened ear 
The minstrel melody can hear; 
His face grows sharp, — his hands are 

clenched. 
As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched; 
Set are his teeth, his fading eye 600 

Is sternly fixed on vacancy; 
Thus, motionless and moanless drew. 
His parting breath stout Roderick Dhu ! — 
Old Allan-bane looked on aghast, 
While grim and still his spirit passed; 
But when he saw that life was fled, 
He poured his wailing o'er the dead. 

XXII 
LAMENT 

* And art thou cold and lowly laid, 

Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, 6oq 
Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade ! 
For thee shall none a requiem say ? — 
For thee, who loved the minstrel's lay, 
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, 
The shelter of her exiled line, 
E'en in this prison-house of thine, 
I '11 wail for Alpine's honored Pine ! 

* What groans shall yonder valleys fill ! 
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill I 
What tears of burning rage shall thrill. 
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done. 
Thy fall before the race was won, 62 
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun ! 

There breathes not clansman of thy line, 
But would have given his life for thine. 
O, woe for Alpine's honored Pine I 

* Sad was thy lot on mortal stage ! — 
The captive thrush may brook the cage, 



2o6 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE 



The prisoned eagle dies for rage. 
Brave spirit, do not scorn my strain ! 
And, when its notes awake again, 630 

Even she, so long beloved in vain, 
Shall with my harp her voice combine, 
And mix her woe and tears with mine, 
To wail Clan-Alpine's honored Pine.' 

XXIII 

Ellen the while, with bursting heart. 

Remained in lordly bower apart. 

Where played, with many-colored gleams, 

Through storied pane the rising beams. 

In vain on gilded roof they fall. 

And lightened up a tapestried wall, 640 

And for her use a menial train 

A rich collation spread in vain. 

The banquet proud, the chamber gay, 

Scarce drew one curious glance astray; 

Or if she looked, 't was but to say. 

With better omen dawned the day 

In that lone isle, where waved on high 

The dun-deer's hide for canopy; 

Where oft her noble father shared 

The simple meal her care prepared, 650 

While Lufra, crouching by her side. 

Her station claimed with jealous pride. 

And Douglas, bent on woodland game. 

Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme, 

Whose answer, oft at random made. 

The wandering of his thoughts betrayed. 

Those who such simple joys have known 

Are taught to prize them when they 're 

gone. 
But sudden, see, she lifts her head, 
The window seeks with cautious tread. 660 
What distant music has the power 
To win her in this woful hour ? 
'T was from a turret that o'erhung 
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung. 

XXIV 
LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN 

* My hawk is tired of perch and hood. 
My idle greyhound loathes his food. 
My horse is weary of his stall. 

And I am sick of captive thrall. 

I wish I were as I have been. 

Hunting the hart in forest green, 670 

With bended bow and bloodhound free. 

For that 's the life is meet for me. 

* I hate to learn the ebb of time 
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, 
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, 
Inch after inch, along the wall. 



The lark was wont my matins ring, 
The sable rook my vespers sing, 
These towers, although a king's they be. 
Have not a hall of joy for me. 680 

* No more at dawning morn I rise, 
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes. 
Drive the fleet deer the forest through. 
And homeward wend with evening dew; 
A blithesome welcome blithely meet. 
And lay my trophies at her feet. 
While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
That life is lost to love and me ! ' 

XXV 

The heart-sick lay was hardly said, 
The listener had not turned her head, 690 
It trickled still, the starting tear. 
When light a footstep struck her ear, 
And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near. 
She turned the hastier, lest again 
The prisoner should renew his strain. 
' O welcome, brave Fitz-James ! ' she said; 

* How may an almost orphan maid 
Pay the deep debt — ' * O say not so ! 
To me no gratitude you owe. 

Not mine, alas ! the boon to give, 700 

And bid thy noble father live; 

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid. 

With Scotland's King thy suit to aid. 

No tyrant he, though ire and pride 

May lay his better mood aside. 

Come, Ellen, come ! 't is more than time, 

He holds his court at morning prime.' 

With beating heart, and bosom wrung, 

As to a brother's arm she clung. 

Gently he dried the falling tear, 710 

And gently whispered hope and cheer; 

Her faltering steps half led, half stayed. 

Through gallery fair and high arcade, 

Till at his touch its wings of pride 

A portal arch unfolded wide. 

XXVI 

Within 't was brilliant all and light, 

A thronging scene of figures bright; 

It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight, 

As when the setting sun has given 

Ten thousand hues to summer even, 720 

And from their tissue fancy frames 

Aerial knights and fairy dames. 

Still by Fitz-James her footing staid; 

A few faint steps she forward made, 

Then slow her drooping head she raised. 

And fearful round the presence gazed; 



CANTO SIXTH: THE GUARD-ROOM 



207 



For him she sought who owned this state, 
The dreaded Prince whose will was fate ! — 
She gazed on many a princely port 
Might well have ruled a royal court; 730 
On many a splendid garb she gazed, — 
Then turned bewildered and amazed, 
For all stood bare ; and in the room 
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. 
To him each lady's look was lent. 
On him each courtier's eye was bent; 
Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen. 
He stood, in simple Lincoln green, 
The centre of the glittering ring, — 
And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's 



King ! 



740 



XXVII 



As wreath of snow on mountain-breast 
Slides from the rock that gave it rest, 
Poor Ellen glided from her stay. 
And at the Monarch's feet she lay; 
No word her choking voice commands, — 
She showed the ring, — she clasped her 
hands. 

0, not a moment could he brook. 

The generous Prince, that suppliant look ! 
Gently he raised her, — and, the while. 
Checked with a glance the circle's smile; 750 
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed, 
And bade her terrors be dismissed: — 
* Yes, fair; the wandering poor Fitz- James 
The fealty of Scotland claims. 
To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring; 
He will redeem his signet ring. 
Ask nought for Douglas; — yester even. 
His Prince and he have much forgiven; 
Wrong hath he had from slanderous 
tongue, 

1, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. 760 
We would not, to the vulgar crowd. 
Yield what they craved with clamor loud ; 
Calmly we heard and judged his cause, 
Our council aided and our laws. 

I stanched thy father's death-feud stern 
With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn; 
And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own 
The friend and bulwark of our throne. — 
But, lovely infidel, how now ? 
What clouds thy misbelieving brow ? 770 
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid; 
Thou must confirm this doubting maid.' 

XXVIII 

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, 
And on his neck his daughter hung. 



The Monarch drank, that happy hour, 

The sweetest, holiest draught of Power, — 

When it can say with godlike voice, 

Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice ! 

Yet would not James the general eye 

On nature's raptures long should pry; 78Q 

He stepped between — ^ Nay, Douglas, 

nay, 
Steal not my proselyte away ! 
The riddle 't is my right to read. 
That brought this happy chance to speed. 
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray 
In life's more low but happier way, 
'T is under name which veils my power. 
Nor falsely veils, — for Stirling's tower 
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, 789 
And Normans call me James Fitz-James. 
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws. 
Thus learn to right the injured cause.' 
Then, in a tone apart and low, — 

* Ah, little traitress ! none must know 
What idle dream, what lighter thought. 
What vanity full dearly bought. 

Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew 

My spell-bound steps to Benvenue 

In dangerous hour, and all but gave 799 

Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive ! ' 

Aloud he spoke : * Thou still dost hold 

That little talisman of gold. 

Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring, — 

What seeks fair Ellen of the King ? ' 

XXIX 

Full well the conscious maiden guessed 
He probed the weakness of her breast; 
But with that consciousness there came 
A lightening of her fears for Graeme, 
And more she deemed the Monarch's ire 
Kindled 'gainst him who for her sire Sio 
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew; 
And, to her generous feeling true. 
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu. 

* Forbear thy suit; — the King of kings 
Alone can stay life's parting wings. 

I know his heart, I know his hand. 

Have shared his cheer, and proved his 

brand ; — 
My fairest earldom would I give 
To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live ! — 
Hast thou no other boon to crave ? 820 

No other captive friend to save ? ' 
Bhishing, she turned her from the King, 
And to the Douglas gave the ring, 
As if she wished her sire to speak 
The suit that stained hor t^lowing cheek. 



208 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



* Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force, 
And stubborn justice holds her course. 
Malcolm, come forth ! ' — and, at the 

word, 
Down kneeled the Graeme to Scotland's 
Lord. 829 

* For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, 
From thee may Vengeance claim her 

dues. 
Who, nurtured underneath our smile. 
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile, 
And sought amid thy faithful clan 
A refuge for an outlawed man. 
Dishonoring thus thy loyal name. — 
Fetters and warder for the Graeme ! ' 
His chain of gold the King unstrung, 
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung, 
Then gently drew the glittering band, 840 
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. 



Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills 
grow dark, 
On purple peaks a deeper shade de- 
scending; 
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her 
spark. 
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert 
wending. 
Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain 
lending. 
And the wild breeze, thy wilder min- 
strelsy ; 
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers 
blending, 



With distant echo from the fold and lea, 

And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum 

of housing bee. 850 

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel 
Harp ! 
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, 
And little reck I of the censure sharp 

May idly cavil at an idle lay. 
Much have I owed thy strains on life's 
long way. 
Through secret woes the world has never 
known, 
When on the weary night dawned wearier 
day, 
And bitterer was the grief devoured 
alone. — 
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress ! is 
thine own. 

Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow 
retire, 860 

Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy 
string ! 
'T is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 
'T is now the brush of Fairy's frolic 
wing. 
Receding now, the dying numbers ring 
Fainter and fainter down the rugged 
dell; 
And now the mountain breezes scarcely 
bring 
A wandering witch-note of the distant 
spell — 
And now, 't is silent all ! — Enchantress, 
fare thee well ! 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



The foundation of The Vision of Bon 
Roderick is given by Scott in the Preface 
printed below and referred to again in the 
Notes, but there was no further Introduction 
in 1830, and it is to the Dedication, Scott's 
Letters, and to Lockhart's Life that we must 
turn for an explanation of the occasion which 
produced the poem. In a letter to Lady Ab- 
ercorn, dated Ashestiel, 30th April, 1811, Scott 
wiites : — 

* I promised I would not write any poetry 
without letting you know, and I make all sort 
of haste to tell you of my sudden determina- 



tion to write a sort of rhapsody upon the af- 
fairs of the Peninsula. It is to be called The 
Vision of Don BodericJc, and is founded upon 
the apparition explanatory of the future events 
in Spain, said to be seen by the last King of 
the Gothic race, in a vault beneath the great 
church of Toledo. I believe your Ladyship 
will find something of the story in the Com- 
tesse D'Aunois' travels into Spain, but I find 
it at most length in an old Spanish history of 
the aforesaid Don Roderick, professing to be 
translated from the Arabic, but being in truth 
a mere romance of the reign of Ferdinand and 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



209 



Isabella. It will serve my purpose, however, 
tout de m^me. The idea of forming a short 
lyric piece upon this subject has often glided 
through my mind, but I should never, I fear, 
have had the grace to turn it to practice if it 
were not that groping in my pockets to find 
some guineas for the suffering Portuguese, 
and detecting very few to spare, I thought I 
could only have recourse to the apostolic 
benediction, " Silver and gold have I none, but 
that which I have I will give unto you." 
My friends and booksellers, the Ballantynes 
of Edinburgh, have very liberally promised 
me a hundred guineas for this trifle, which I 
intend to send to the fund for relieving the 
sufBerers in Portugal. I have come out to 
this wilderness to write my poem, and so soon 
as it is finished I will send you, my dear Lady 
Marchioness, a copy, — not that it will be 
worth your acceptance, but merely that you 
may be assured I am doing nothing that I 
would not you knew of sooner than any one. 
I intend to write to the Chairman of the Com- 
mittee by to-morrow's post. I would give 
them a hundred drops of my blood with the 
same pleasure, would it do them service, for 
my heart is a soldier's, and always has been, 
though my lameness rendered me unfit for the 
profession, which, old as I am, I would rather 
follow than any other. But these are waking 
dreams, in which I seldom indulge even to my 
kindest friends.' 

The poem, which was published July 15, 
1811, called out two criticisms, — one for the 
adoption of the Spenserian stanza, the other 
for the omission of any reference to Sir John 
Moore, Scott's countryman who had just 
fallen in battle in the cause which Scott was 
celebrating, and whose memory is kept alive 
in many readers' minds by Wolfe's martial 
verses on his burial, — 

' Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried.' 

Scott meets both criticisms in a letter to Mor- 
ritt, September, 1811 : — 

* The Edinburgh Reviewers have been down 
on my poor Don Roderick, hand to fist ; but 
truly, as they are too fastidious to approve of 
the campaign, I should be very unreasonable 
if I expected them to like the celebration 
thereof. I agree with you respecting the lum- 
bering weight of the stanza, and I shrewdly 
suspect it would require a very great poet in- 
deed to prevent the tedium arising from the 
frequent recurrence of rhymes. Our language 
is unable to support the expenditure of so 
many for each stanza ; even Spenser himself, 
with all the licenses of using obsolete words 
and uncommon spelling, sometimes fatigues 
the ear. They are also very wroth with me 



for omitting the merits of Sir John Moore ; 
but as I never exactly discovered in what they 
lay, unless in conducting his advance and re- 
treat upon a plan the most likely to verify 
the desponding speculations of the foresaid 
reviewers, I must hold myself excused for not 
giving praise where I was unable to see that 
much was due.' 

The poem was both published in quarto form 
and included in the Edinburgh Annual Register 
for 1809, which was not however published till 
1811. It had the following : — 

PREFACE 

The following Poem is founded upon a 
Spanish Tradition, particularly detailed in the 
Notes ; but bearing, in general, that Don Rod- 
erick, the last Gothic King of Spain, when the 
Invasion of the Moors was impending, had the 
temerity to descend into an ancient vault, near 
Toledo, the opening of which had been de- 
nounced as fatal to the Spanish Monarchy. 
The legend adds, that his rash curiosity was 
mortified by an emblematical representation of 
those Saracens who, in the year 714, defeated 
him in battle, and reduced Spain under their 
dominion. I have presumed to prolong the 
Vision of the Revolutions of Spain down to 
the present eventful crisis of the Peninsula ; 
and to divide it, by a supposed change of scene, 
into Three Periods. The First of these repre- 
sents the Invasion of the Moors, the Defeat 
and Death of Roderick, and closes with the 
peaceful occupation of the country by the Vic- 
tors. The Second Period embraces the state 
of the Peninsula, when the conquests of the 
Spaniards and Portuguese in the East and 
West Indies had raised to the highest pitch 
the renown of their arms ; sullied, however, by 
superstition and cruelty. An allusion to the 
inhumanities of the Inquisition terminates this 
picture. The Last Part of the Poem opens 
with the state of Spain previous to the unpar- 
alleled treachery of Bonaparte ; gives a sketch 
of the usurpation attempted upon that unsus- 
picious and friendly kingdom, and terminates 
with the arrival of the British succors. It may 
be further proper to mention that the object of 
the Poem is less to commemorate or detail 
particular incidents, than to exhibit a general 
and impressive picture of the several periods 
brought upon the stage. 

I am too sensible of the respect duo to the 
Public, especially by one who has already ex- 
perienced more than ordinary indulgoiico, to 
offer any ajwlogy for the inferiority of the 
poetry to the subject it is chiefly designed to 
conuneniorate. Yet I think it proper to men- 
tion that while I was hastily executing a work, 
written for a temporary purpose, and on pass- 



2IO 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



ing events, the task was most cruelly inter- 
rupted by the successive deaths of Lord Presi- 
dent Blair and Lord Viscount Melville. In 
those disting^uished characters I had not only 
to regret persons whose lives were most im- 
portant to Scotland, but also whose notice and 
patronage honored my entrance upon active 
life ; and, I may add, with melancholy pride, 
who permitted my more advanced age to claim 



no common share in their friendship. Under 
such interruptions, the following verses, which 
my best and happiest efforts must have left 
far unworthy of their theme, have. I am my- 
self sensible, an appearance of negligence and 
incoherence, which, in other circumstances, I 
might have been able to remove. 

Edinbubgh, June 24, 1811. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



Quid digmim viemorare tuis, Hispania, terris. 
Vox humana valet ! — Claudian. 



JOHN WHITMORE, ESQ., 

AND TO THE 
COMMITTEE OF SUBSCRIBERS FOR RELIEF OF THE PORTUGUESE SUFFERERS 

IN WHICH HE PRESIDES, 

THIS POEM, 

COMPOSED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FUND UNDER THEIR MANAGEMENT, 
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 

WALTER SCOTT. 



INTRODUCTION 



Lives there a strain whose sounds of 
mounting fire 
May rise distinguished o'er the din of 
war; 
Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre, 
Who sung beleaguered Ilion's evil 
star? 
Such, Wellington, might reach thee 
from afar, 
Wafting its descant wide o'er Ocean's 
range ; 
Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood 
could mar, 
All as it swelled 'twixt each loud trum- 
pet-change, 
That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal 
revenge ! 



n 

Yes ! such a strain, with all o'erpower- 
ing measure, lo 

Might melodize with each tumultuous 
sound. 
Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or 
pleasure. 
That rings Mondego's ravaged shores 
around ; 
The thundering cry of hosts with con- 
quest crowned. 
The femalie shriek, the ruined peasant's 
moan, 
The shout of captives from their chains 
unbound. 
The foiled oppressor's deep and sullen 
groan, 
A Nation's choral hymn for tyranny o'er- 
thrown. 



INTRODUCTION 



211 



III 
But we, weak minstrels of a laggard 
day, 19 

Skilled but to imitate an elder page, 
Timid and raptureless, can we repay 
The debt thou claim'st in this ex- 
hausted age ? 
Thou givest our lyres a theme, that 
might engage 
Those that could send thy name o'er 
sea and land, 
While sea and land shall last; for Ho- 
mer's rage 
A theme; a theme for Milton's mighty 
hand — 
How much unmeet for us, a faint degener- 
ate band ! 

IV 

Ye mountains stern ! within whose rug- 
ged breast 
The friends of Scottish freedom found 
repose ; 
Ye torrents ! whose hoarse sounds have 
soothed their rest, 30 

Returning from the field of vanquished 
foes; 
Say, have ye lost each wild majestic 
close. 
That erst the choir of Bards or Druids 
flung; 
What time their hymn of victory arose. 
And Cattreath's glens with voice of 
triumph rung. 
And mystic Merlin harped, and gray-haired 
Llywarch sung ? 



O, if your wilds such minstrelsy re- 
tain. 
As sure your changeful gales seem oft 
to say. 
When sweeping wild and sinking soft 
again, 
Like trumpet-jubilee or harp's wild 
sway; 40 

If ye can echo such triumphant lay. 
Then lend the note to him has loved 
you long ! 
Who pious gathered each tradition 
gray. 
That floats your solitary wastes 
along, 
And with affection vain gave them new 
voice in song. 



VI 

For not till now, how oft soe'er the task 
Of truant verse hath lightened graver 
care, 
From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask. 
In phrase poetic, inspiration fair; 49 
Careless he gave his numbers to the air, 
They came unsought for, if applauses 
came; 
Nor for himself prefers he now the 
prayer : 
Let but his verse befit a hero's fame. 
Immortal be the verse ! — forgot the poet's 
name ! 

VII 

Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer 
tost: 
* Minstrel ! the fame of whose roman- 
tic lyre. 
Capricious-swelling now, may soon be 
lost. 
Like the light flickering of a cottage fire ; 
If to such task presumptuous thou aspire 
Seek not from us the meed to warrior 
due : 60 

Age after age has gathered son to sire, 
Since our gray cliffs the din of conflict 
knew. 
Or, pealing through our vales, victorious 
bugles blew. 

VIII 

* Decayed our old traditionary lore. 

Save where the lingering fays renew 
their ring, 
By milkmaid seen beneath the hawthorn 
hoar. 
Or round the marge of Minchmore's 
haunted spring; 
Save where their legends gray-haired 
shepherds sing. 
That now scarce win a listening ear 
but thine, 69 

Of feuds obscure and Border ravaging, 
And rugged deeds recount in rugged 
line 
Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, 
or Tyne. 

IX 

* No ! search romantic lands, where tlie 

near Sun 
Gives with unstinted boon ethereal 
flame, 



212 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



Where the rude villager, his labor done, 
In verse spontaneous chants some fa- 
vored name. 
Whether Olalia's charms his tribute 
claim , 
Her eye of diamond and her locks of 
jet, 
Or whether, kindling at the deeds of 
Grseme, 79 

He sing, to wild Morisco measure set, 
Old Albin's red claymore, green Erin's 
bayonet ! 



'Explore those regions, where the flinty 
crest 
Of wild Nevada ever gleams with 
snows. 
Where in the proud Alhambra's ruined 
breast 
Barbaric monuments of pomp repose ; 
Or where the banners of more ruthless 
foes 
Than the fierce Moor float o'er Toledo's 
fane. 
From whose tall towers even now the 
patriot throws 
An anxious glance, to spy upon the 
plain 
The blended ranks of England, Portugal, 
and Spain. 90 

XI 

* There, of Numantian fire a swarthy 

spark 
Still lightens in the sunburnt native's 
eye; 
The stately port, slow step, and visage 
dark 
Still mark enduring pride and con- 
stancy. 
And, if the glow of feudal chivalry 
Beam not, as once, thy nobles' dearest 
pride, 
Iberia ! oft thy crestless peasantry 

Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit 
their side, 
Have seen, yet dauntless stood — 'gainst 
fortune fought and died. 

XII 

* And cherished still by that unchanging 

race, 100 

Are themes for minstrelsy more high 
than thine: 



Of strange tradition many a mystic trace, 
Legend and vision, prophecy and sign; 
Where wonders wild of Arabesque com- 
bine 
With Gothic imagery of darker shade. 
Forming a model meet for minstrel line. 
Go, seek such theme ! ' — The Moun- 
tain Spirit said: 
With filial awe I heard — I heard, and I 
obeyed. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



Rearing their crests amid the cloudless 
skies. 
And darkly clustering in the pale moon- 
light, 
Toledo's holy towers and spires arise, 
As from a trembling lake of silver 
white. 
Their mingled shadows intercept the 
sight 
Of the broad burial - ground out- 
stretched below. 
And nought disturbs the silence of the 
night; 
All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver 
glow. 
All save the heavy swell of Teio's ceaseless 
flow. 9 

II 

All save the rushing swell of Teio's tide. 
Or, distant heard, a courser's neigh or 
tramp. 
Their changing rounds as watchful horse- 
men ride. 
To guard the limits of King Roderick's 
camp. 
For, through the river's night-fog rolling 
damp, 
Was many a proud pavilion dimly seen. 
Which glimmered back, against the 
moon's fair lamp, 
Tissues of silk and silver twisted sheen. 
And standards proudly pitched, and warders 
armed between. 

Ill 

But of their monarch's person keeping 
ward, 
Since last the deep-mouthed bell of 
vespers tolled, 20 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



A. 



The chosen soldiers of the royal guard 
The post beneath the proud cathedral 
hold: 
A band unlike their Gothic sires of old, 

Who, for the cap of steel and iron mace, 
Bear slender darts and casques bedecked 
with gold, 
While silver-studded belts their shoul- 
ders grace, 
Where ivory quivers ring in the broad fal- 
chion's place. 

IV 
In the light language of an idle court. 
They murmured at their master's long 
delay, 29 

And held his lengthened orisons in sport: 
* What ! will Don Roderick here till 
morning stay. 
To wear in shrift and prayer the night 
away? 
And are his hours in such dull penance 
past. 
For fair Florinda's plundered charms to 
pay?' 
Then to the east their weary eyes they 
cast. 
And wished the lingering dawn would glim- 
mer forth at last. 



But, far within, Toledo's prelate lent 

An ear of fearful wonder to the king; 
The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, 39 
So long that sad confession witnessing : 
For Roderick told of many a hidden 
thing, 
Such as are lothly uttered to the air, 
When Fear, Remorse, and Shame the 
bosom wring, 
And Guilt his secret burden cannot 
bear, 
And Conscience seeks in speech a respite 
from Despair. 

VI 
Full on the prelate's face and silver hair 
The stream of failing light was feebly 
rolled; > 
But Roderick's visage, though his head 
was bare, 
Was shadowed by his hand and mantle's 
fold. 
While of his hidden soul the sins he 
toldy 50 



Proud Alaric's descendant could not 
brook 
That mortal man his bearing should 
behold. 
Or boast that he had seen, when con- 
science shook. 
Fear tame a monarch's brow, remorse a 
warrior's look. 

VII 

The old man's faded cheek waxed yet 
more pale. 
As many a secret sad the king be- 
wrayed ; 
As sign and glance eked out the unfin- 
ished tale. 
When in the midst his faltering whisper 
staid. — 

* Thus royal Witiza was slain,' he said; 

* Yet, holy father, deem not it was I.' 60 
Thus still Ambition strives her crimes 

to shade. — 

* O, rather deem 't was stern necessity ! 
Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or 

die. 

VIII 

* And if Florinda's shrieks alarmed the 

air. 
If she invoked her absent sire in vain 
And on her knees implored that I would 
spare. 
Yet, reverend priest, thy sentence rash 
refrain ! 
All is not as it seems — the female train 
Know by their bearing to disguise their 
mood : ' — 
But Conscience here, as if in high dis- 
dain, 70 
Sent to the Monarch's cheek the burn- 
ing blood — 
He stayed his speech abrupt — and up the 
prelate stood. 

IX 

* O hardened offspring of an iron race ! 

What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, 
shall I say ? 
What alms or prayers or penance can 
efface 
Murder's dark spot, wash treason's 
stain away ! 
For the foul ravisher how shall I pray, 
Who, scarce repentant, makes his 
crime his boast ? 



214 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



How hope Almighty vengeance shall 

delay, 79 

Unless, in mercy to yon Christian host, 

H^ spare the shepherd lest the guiltless 

sheep be lost.' 



Then kindled the dark tyrant in his mood. 
And to his brow returned its dauntless 
gloom; 

* And welcome then,' he cried, * be blood 

for blood. 
For treason treachery, for dishonor 
doom ! 
Yet will I know whence come they or by 
whom. 
Show, for thou canst — give forth the 
fated key. 
And guide me, priest, to that mysterious 
room 
Where, if aught true in old tradition 
be. 
His nation's future fates a Spanish king 
shall see.' 90 

XI 

* Ill-fated Prince ! recall the desperate 

word. 
Or pause ere yet the omen thou obey ! 
Bethink, yon spell-bound portal would 
afford 
Never to former monarch entrance- 
way; 
Nor shall it ever ope, old records say. 

Save to a king, the last of all his line. 
What time his empire totters to decay. 
And treason digs beneath her fatal 
mine. 
And high alDove impends avenging wrath 
divine.' — 

XII 

* Prelate ! a monarch's fate brooks no 

delay ; 100 

Lead on ! ' — The ponderous key the 
old man took. 
And held the winking lamp, and led the 
way. 
By winding stair, dark aisle, and secret 
nook, 
Then on an ancient gateway bent his look ; 
And, as the key the desperate king 
essayed, 
Low muttered thunders the cathedral 
shook. 



And twice he stopped and twice new 
effort made, 
Till the huge bolts rolled back and the 
loud hinges brayed. 

XIII 

Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted 
hall; 
Roof, walls, and floor were all of mar- 
ble stone, no 
Of polished marble, black as funeral 
pall. 
Carved o'er with signs and characters 
unknown. 
A paly light, as of the dawning, shone 
Through the sad bounds, but whence 
they could not spy, 
For window to the upper air was 
• none ; 

Yet by that light Don Roderick could 
descry 
Wonders that ne'er till then were seen by 
mortal eye. 

XIV 

Grim sentinels, against the upper wall. 
Of molten bronze, two Statues held 
their place ; 
Massive their naked limbs, their stature 
tall, 120 

Their frowning foreheads golden 
circles grace. 
Moulded they seemed for kings of giant 
race. 
That lived and sinned before the 
avenging flood; 
This grasped a scythe, that rested on a 
mace; 
This spread his wings for flight, that 
pondering stood. 
Each stubborn seemed and stern, immu- 
table of mood. 

XV 

Fixed was the right-hand giant's brazen 
look 
Upon his brother's glass of shifting 
sand, 
As if its ebb he measured by a book, 
Whose iron volume loaded his huge 
hand; 130 

In which was wrote of many a fallen 
land. 
Of empires lost, and kings to exile 
driven; 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



215 



And o'er that pair their names in scroll 
expand — 
< Loj Destiny and Time ! to whom 
by Heaven 
The guidance of the earth is for a season 
given.' — 

XVI 

Even while they read, the sand-glass 
wastes away; 
And, as the last and lagging grains 
did creep, 
That right-hand giant 'gan his club up- 
sway, 
As one that startles from a heavy 
sleep. 
Full on the upper wall the mace's 
sweep 140 

At once descended with the force of 
thunder. 
And, hurtling down at once in crumbled 
heap. 
The marble boundary was rent asun- 
der. 
And gave to Roderick's view new sights of 
fear and wonder. 

XVII 

For they might spy beyond that mighty 
breach 
Realms as of Spain in visioned pro- 
spect laid. 
Castles and towers, in due proportion 
each, 
As by some skilful artist's hand por- 
trayed: 
Here, crossed by many a wild Sierra's 
shade 
And boundless plains that tire the 
traveller's eye; 150 

There, rich with vineyard and with olive 
glade. 
Or deep-embrowned by forests huge 
and high, 
Or washed by mighty streams that slowly 
murmured by. 

XVIII 

And here, as erst upon the antique stage 
Passed forth the band of masquers 
trimly led. 
In various forms and various equipage, 
While fitting strains the hearer's fancy 
fed; 
So, to sad Roderick's eye in order spread, 



Successive pageants filled that mystic 

scene. 

Showing the fate of battles ere they 

bled, 160 

And issue of events that had not been; 

And ever and anon strange sounds were 

heard between. 

XIX 

First shrilled an unrepeated female 
shriek ! — 
It seemed as if Don Roderick knew 
the call, 
For the bold blood was blanching in his 
cheek. — 
Then answered kettle-drum and at- 
abal. 
Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear ap- 
pall. 
The Tecbir war-cry and the Lelie's 
yell 

Ring wildly dissonant along the hall. 
Needs not to Roderick their dread im- 
port tell — 170 
* The Moor ! ' he cried, * the Moor ! — ring 
out the tocsin bell ! 

XX 

* They come ! they come ! I see the 

groaning lands 
White with the turbans of each Arab 
horde ; 
Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving 
bands. 
Alia and Mahomet their battle-word, 
The choice they yield, the Koran or the 
sword. — 
See how the Christians rush to arms 
amain ! — 
In yonder shout the voice of conflict 
roared. 
The shadowy hosts are closing on the 
plain — 
Now, God and Saint lago strike for the 
good cause of Spain ! iSo 

XXI 

* By Heaven, the Moors prevail I the 

Christians yield ! 
Their coward leader gives for flight 
the sign ! 
The sceptred craven mounts to quit the 
field — 
Is not yon steed Orelia ? — Yes, 't is 
^ jnine ! 



2l6 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



But never was she turned from battle- 
line: 
Lo ! where the recreant spurs o'er 
stock and stone ! — 
Curses pursue the slave, and wrath di- 
vine ! 
Rivers ingulf him!' — *Hush,' in 
shuddering tone, 
The prelate said; * rash prince, yon vis- 
ioned form's thine own.' 

XXII 

Just then, a torrent crossed the flier's 
course ; 190 

The dangerous ford the kingly likeness 
tried; 
But the deep eddies whelmed both man 
and horse. 
Swept like benighted peasant down 
the tide; 
And the proud Moslemah spread far and 
wide, 
As numerous as their native locust 
band; 
Berber and Ismael's sons the spoils di- 
vide, 
With naked scimitars mete out the 
land. 
And for the bondsmen base the free-born 
natives brand. 

XXIII 
Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose 
The loveliest maidens of the Christian 
line ; 200 

Then, menials, to their misbelieving 
foes 
Castile's young nobles held forbidden 
wine; 
Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation's 
sign. 
By impious hands was from the altar 
thrown. 
And the deep aisles of the polluted shrine 
Echoed, for holy hymn and organ-tone. 
The Santon's frantic dance, the Fakir's 
gibbering moan. 

XXIV 

How fares Don Roderick ? — E'en as 

one who spies 
Flames dart their glare o'er midnight's 

sable woof. 
And hears around his children's piercing 

cries, 210 



And sees the pale assistants stand 
aloof ; 
While cruel Conscience brings him bitter 
proof 
His folly or his crime have caused his 
grief; 
And while above him nods the crumbling 
roof. 
He curses earth and Heaven — him- 
self in chief — 
Desperate of earthly aid, despairing Hea- 
ven's relief ! 

XXV 

That scythe-armed Giant turned his fatal 
glass 
And twilight on the landscape closed 
her wings; 
Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds pass. 
And in their stead rebeck or timbrel 
rings ; 220 

And to the sound the bell-decked dancer 
springs. 
Bazars resound as when their marts 
are met. 
In tourney light the Moor his jerrid 
flings. 
And on the land as evening seemed to 
set, 
The Imaum's chant was heard from mosque 
or minaret. J 

XXVI 

So passed that pageant. Ere another 
came. 
The visionary scene was wrapped in 
smoke. 
Whose sulphurous wreaths were crossed 
by sheets of flame; 
With every flash a bolt explosive 
broke. 
Till Roderick deemed the fiends had 
burst their yoke 230 

And waved 'gainst heaven the infer- 
nal gonfalone ! 
For War a new and dreadful language 
spoke, 
Never by ancient warrior heard or 
known ; 
Lightning and smoke her breath, and 
thunder was her tone. 

XXVII 

From the dim landscape roll the clouds 
away — 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



217 



The Christians have regained their 
heritage ; 
Before the Cross has waned the Cres- 
cent's ray, 
And many a monastery decks the 
stage, 
And lofty church and low-browed her- 
mitage. 
The land obeys a Hermit and a 
Knight, — 240 

The Genii these of Spain for many an 
age; ^ 
This clad in sackcloth, that in armor 
bright. 
And that was Valor named, this Bigotry 
was hight. 

XXVIII 

Valor was harnessed like a chief of 
old. 
Armed at all points, and prompt for 
knightly gest; 
His sword was tempered in the Ebro 
cold, 
Morena's eagle plume adorned his 
crest. 
The spoils of Afric's lion bound his 
breast. 
Fierce he stepped forward and flung 
down his gage; 249 

As if of mortal kind to brave the best. 
Him followed his companion, dark and 



As he my Master sung, the dangerous 
Archimage. 

XXIX 

Haughty of heart and brow the warrior 
came. 
In look and language proud as proud 
might be, 
Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights, 
and fame: 
Yet was that barefoot monk more 
proud than he; 
And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree, 
So round the loftiest soul his toils he 
wound. 
And with his spells subdued the fierce 
and free. 
Till ermined Age and Youth in arms 
renowned, 260 

Honoring his scourge and haircloth, meekly 
kissed the ground. 



XXX 

And thus it chanced that Valor, peer- 
less knight. 
Who ne'er to King or Kaiser veiled his 
crest. 
Victorious still in bull-feast or in fight. 
Since first his limbs with mail he did 
invest. 
Stooped ever to that anchoret's behest; 
Nor reasoned of the right nor of the 
wrong. 
But at his bidding laid the lance in 
rest. 
And wrought fell deeds the troubled 
world along. 
For he was fierce as brave and pitiless as 
strong. 270 

XXXI 

Oft his proud galleys sought some new- 
found world. 
That latest sees the sun or first the 
morn; 
Still at that wizard's feet their spoils he 
hurled, — 
Ingots of ore from rich Potosi borne. 
Crowns by Caciques, aigrettes by Om- 
rahs worn. 
Wrought of rare gems, but broken, 
rent, and foul; 
Idols of gold from heathen temples torn, 
Bedabbled all with blood. — With 
grisly scowl 
The hermit marked the stains and smiled 
beneath his cowl. 

XXXII 

Then did he bless the offering, and bade 
make 280 

Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and 
praise ; 
And at his word the choral hymns awake, 
And many a hand the silver censer 
sways, 
But with the incense-breath these censers 
raise 
Mix steams from corpses smouldering 
in the fire; 
The groans of prisoned victims mar the 
lays. 
And shrieks of agony confound the 
quire; 
While, 'mid the mingled sounds, the dark- 
ened scenes expire. 



2l8 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



XXXIII 

Preluding light, were strains of music 
heard, 
As once again revolved that measured 
sand: 290 

Such sounds as when, for sylvan dance 
prepared, 
Gay Xeres summons forth her vintage 
band; 
When for the light bolero ready stand 
The mozo blithe, with gay muchacha 
met, 
He conscious of his broidered cap and 
band, 
She of her netted locks and light cor- 
sette. 
Each tiptoe perched to spring and shake 
the Castanet. 

XXXIV 

And well such strains the opening scene 
became; 
For Valor had relaxed his ardent 
look, 
And at a lady's feet, like lion tame, 300 
Lay stretched, full loath the weight 
of arms to brook; 
And softened Bigotry upon his book 
Pattered a task of little good or 

ni: 

But the blithe peasant plied his pruning- 
hook, 
Whistled the muleteer o'er vale and 
hill, 
And rung from village-green the merry 
seguidille. 

XXXV 

Gray Royalty, grown impotent of toil. 
Let the grave sceptre slip his lazv 
hold; 
And careless saw his rule become the 
spoil 
Of a loose female and her minion 
bold. 310 

But peace was on the cottage and the 
fold, 
From court intrigue, from bickering 
faction far; 
Beneath the chestnut-tree love's tale was 
told. 
And to the tinkling of the light gui- 
tar 
Sweet stooped the western sun, sweet rose 
the evening star. 



XXXVI 

As that sea-cloud, in size like human 
hand 
When first from Carmel by the Tishbite 
seen. 
Came slowly overshadowing Israel's land. 
Awhile perchance bedecked with colors 
sheen. 
While yet the sunbeams on its skirts had 
been, 320 

Limning with purple and with gold its 
shroud, 
Till darker folds obscured the blue serene 
And blotted heaven with one broad sa- 
ble cloud, 
Then sheeted rain burst down and whirl- 
winds howled aloud: — 

xxx\^i m\ 

Even so, upon that peaceful scene was 
poured, 
Like gathering clouds, full many a for- 
eign band. 
And He, their leader, wore in sheath his 
sword. 
And offered peaceful front and open 
hand, 
Veiling the perjured treachery he 
planned. 
By friendship's zeal and honor's spe- 
cious guise, 330 
L'ntil he won the passes of the land; 
Then burst were honor's oath and 
friendship's ties ! 
He clutched his vulture grasp and called 
fair Spain his prize. 

xxxviii 

An iron crown his anxious forehead bore: 
And well such diadem his heart be- 
came 
Who ne'er his purpose for remorse gave 
o'er. 
Or checked his course for piety or 
shame; 
Who, trained a soldier, deemed a soldier's 
fame 
Might flourish in the wreath of battles 
won. 
Though neither truth nor honor decked 
his name; 340 

Who, placed by fortune on a monarch's 
throne, 
Recked not of monarch's faith or mercy's 
kingly tone. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



219 



XXXIX 

From a rude isle his ruder lineage came : 
The spark that, from a suburb-hovel's 
hearth 
Ascending, wraps some capital in flame. 
Hath not a meaner or more sordid 
birth. 
And for the soul that bade him waste the 
earth — 
The sable land-flood from some swamp 
obscure, 
That poisons the glad husband-field with 
dearth. 
And by destruction bids its fame en- 
dure, 350 
Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, 
and impure. 

XL 

Before that leader strode a shadowy 
form; 
Her limbs like mist, her torch like 
meteor showed, 
With which she beckoned him through 
fight and storm, 
And all he crushed that crossed his 
desperate road, 
Nor thought, nor feared, nor looked on 
what he trode. 
Realms could not glut his pride, blood 
could not slake. 
So oft as e'er she shook her torch abroad: 
It was Ambition bade his terrors 
wake. 
Nor deigned she, as of yore, a milder form 
to take. 360 

XLI 

No longer now she spurned at mean re- 
venge, 
Or staid her hand for conquered foe- 
man's moan. 
As when, the fates of aged Rome to 
change, 
By Caesar's side she crossed the Ru- 
bicon. 
Nor joyed she to bestow the spoils she 
won, 
As when the banded powers of Greece 
were tasked 
To war beneath the Youth of Macedon: 
No seemly veil her modern minion 
asked, 
He saw her hideous face and loved the fiend 
unmasked. 



XLII 

That prelate marked his march — on ban- 
ners blazed 370 
With battles won in many a distant 
land, 
On eagle-standards and on arms he gazed ; 
* And hopest thou, then,' he said, * thy 
power shall stand ? 
O, thou hast builded on the shifting sand 
And thou hast tempered it with slaugh- 
ter's flood; 
And know, fell scourge in the Almighty's 
hand. 
Gore-moistened trees shall perish in 
the bud, 
And by a bloody death shall die the Man of 
Blood ! ' 

XLIII 

The ruthless leader beckoned from his 
train 
A wan fraternal shade, and bade him 
kneel, 380 

And paled his temples with the crown of 
Spain, 
While trumpets rang and heralds cried 
« Castile ! ' 
Not that he loved him — No ! — In no 
man's weal, 
Scarce in his own, e'er joyed that sullen 
heart; 
Yet round that throne he bade his war- 
riors wheel. 
That the poor puppet might perform 
his part 
And be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck 
to start. 

XLIV 
But on the natives of that land misused 
Not long the silence of amazement 
hung, 
Nor brooked they long their friendly faith 
abused ; 390 

For with a common shriek the general 
tongue 
Exclaimed, * To arms ! ' and fast to arms 
they sprung. 
And Valor woke, that Genius of the 
land ! 
Pleasure and ease and sloth aside lie Ihiiig, 
As burst the awakening Naziirite his 
band 
When 'gainst his treacherous foes he 
clenched his dreadful hand. 



220 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



XLV 

That mimic monarch now cast anxious 
eye 
Upon the satraps that begirt him 
round, 
Now doffed his royal robe in act to fly, 
And from his brow the diadem un- 
bound. 400 
So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound. 
From Tarik's walls to Bilboa's moun- 
tains blown, 
These martial satellites hard labor found. 
To guard awhile his substituted throne ; 
Light recking of his cause, but battling for 
their own. 

XLVI 

From Alpuhara's peak that bugle rung. 
And it was echoed from Corunna's 
wall; 
Stately Seville responsive war-shout 
flung, 
Grenada caught it in her Moorish hall ; 
Galicia bade her children fight or fall, 410 
Wild Biscay shook his mountain-coro- 
net, 
Valencia roused her at the battle-call. 
And, foremost still where Valor's sons 
are met. 
Fast started to his gun each fiery Miquelet. 

XLVII 

But unappalled and burning for the fight. 
The invaders march, of victory secure, 
Skilful their force to sever or unite. 
And trained alike to vanquish or 
endure. 
Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to insure. 
Discord to breathe and jealousy to sow. 
To quell by boasting and by bribes to 
lure; 421 

While nought against them bring the 
unpractised foe. 
Save hearts for freedom's cause and hands 
for freedom's blow. 

XLVIII 

Proudly they march — but, O, they march 
not forth 
By one hot field to crown a brief cam- 
paign, 
As when their eagles, sweeping through 
the North, 
Destroyed at every stoop an ancient 
reign ! 



Far other fate had Heaven decreed for 
Spain; 
In vain the steel, in vain the torch was 
plied. 
New Patriot armies started from the 
slain, 430 

High blazed the war, and long, and far, 
and wide, 
And oft the God of Battles blest the right- 
eous side. 

XLIX 

Nor unatoned, where Freedom's foes 
prevail. 
Remained their savage waste. With 
blade and brand 
By day the invaders ravaged hill and 
dale. 
But with the darkness the Guerilla 
band 
Came like night's tempest and avenged 
the land. 
And claimed for blood the retribution , 
due, i 

Probed the hard heart and lopped the 
murd'rous hand; 
And Dawn, when o'er the scene her 
beams she threw, 440 

Midst ruins they had made the spoilers' 
corpses knew. 



What minstrel verse may sing or tongue 
may tell, 
Amid the visioned strife from sea to 
sea. 
How oft the Patriot banners rose or 
fell. 
Still honored in defeat as victory ? 
For that sad pageant of events to be 
Showed every form of fight by field 
and flood; 
Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their 
glee, 
Beheld, while riding on the tempest 
scud. 
The waters choked with slain, the earth 
bedrenched with blood ! 450 

LI 

Then Zaragoza — blighted be the tongue 

That names thy name without the 

honor due ! 

For never hath the harp of minstrel rung 

Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true ! 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



221 



Mine, sap, and bomb thy shattered ruins 
knew. 
Each art of war's extremity had room, 
Twice from thy half-sacked streets the 
foe withdrew, 
And when at length stern Fate de- 
creed thy doom, 
They won not Zaragoza but her children's 
bloody tomb. 

LII 

Yet raise thy head, sad city ! Though 
in chains, 460 

Enthralled thou canst not be ! Arise, 
and claim 
Reverence from every heart where Free- 
dom reigns. 
For what thou worshippest ! — thy 
sainted dame. 
She of the Column, honored be her name 
By all, whatever their creed, who 
honor love ! 
And like the sacred relics of the flame 
That gave some martyr to the blessed 
above. 
To every loyal heart may thy sad embers 
prove ! 

LIII 

Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona 
fair ! 
Faithful to death thy heroes should be 
sung, 470 

Manning the towers, while o'er their 
heads the air 
Swart as the smoke from raging fur- 
nace hung; 
Now thicker darkening where the mine 
was sprung, 
Now briefly lightened by the cannon's 
flare, 
Now arched with fire-sparks as the bomb 
was flung, 
And reddening now with conflagra- 
tion's glare, 
While by the fatal light the foes for storm 
prepare. 

LIV 

While all around was danger, strife, and 
fear. 
While the earth shook and darkened 
was the sky, 

And wide destruction stunned the listen- 
ing ear, 480 



Appalled the heart, and stupefied the 
eye, — 
Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry, 
In which old Albion's heart and tongue 
unite. 
Whene'er her soul is up and pulse beats 
high. 
Whether it hail the wine-cu p or the fight. 
And bid each arm be strong or bid each 
heart be light. 

LV 

Don Roderick turned him as the shout 
grew loud — 
A varied scene the changeful vision 
showed, 
For, where the ocean mingled with the 
cloud, 
A gallant navy stemmed the billows 
broad. 490 

From mast and stern Saint George's 
symbol flowed. 
Blent with the silver cross to Scotland 
dear; 
Mottling the sea their landward barges 
rowed, 
And flashed the sun on bayonet, brand, 
and spear, 
And the wild beach returned the seamen's 
jovial cheer. 

LVI 
It was a dread yet spirit-stirring sight ! 
The billows foamed beneath a thou- 
sand oars. 
Fast as they land the red-cross ranks 
unite. 
Legions on legions brightening all the 
shores. 
Then banners rise and cannon - signal 
roars, 500 

Then peals the warlike thunder of the 
drum. 
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish 
pours. 
And patriot hopes awake and doubts 
are dumb, 
For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands of 
Ocean come ! 

LVII 

A various host they came — whose ranks 
display 
Each mode in which the warrior meets 
the fight: 



222 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 



The deep battalion locks its firm ar- 
ray, 
And meditates his aim the marksman 
light; 
Far glance the lines of sabres flashing 
bright, 
Where mounted squadrons shake the 
echoing mead; 510 

Lacks not artillery breathing flame and 
night, 
Xor the fleet ordnance whirled by 
rapid steed, 
That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in 
speed. 

LVIII 

A various host — from kindred realms 
they came. 
Brethren in arms but rivals in re- 
nown — 
For yon fair bands shall merry England 
claim. 
And with their deeds of valor deck 
her crown. 
Hers their bold port, and hers their 
martial frown. 
And hers their scorn of death in free- 
dom's cause. 
Their eyes of azure, and their locks of 
brown, 52c 

And the blunt speech that bursts with- 
out a pause. 
And freeborn thoughts which league the 
soldier with the laws. 

LIX 

And, loved warriors of the minstrel's 
^ land ! 

Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans 
wave ! 
The rugged form may mark the moun- 
tain band. 
And harsher features, and a mien 
more grave; 
But ne'er in battle-field throbbed heart 
so brave 
As that which beats beneath the Scot- 
tish plaid; 
And when the pibroch bids the battle 
rave. 
And level for the charge your arms 
are laid, 530 

tVhere lives the desperate foe that for such 
onset staid ? 



LX 

Hark ! from yon stately ranks what 
laughter rings, 
Mingling wild mirth with war's stern 
minstrelsy. 
His jest while each blithe comrade round 
him flings 
And moves to death with military glee : 
Boast, Erin, boast them ! tameless, frank, 
and free. 
In kindness warm and fierce in danger 
known, 
Rough nature's children, humorous as 
she: 
And He, yon Chieftain — strike the 
proudest tone 
Of thy bold harp, green Isle ! — the hero 
is thine own. 540 

LXI 

Now on the scene Vimeira should be 
shown. 
On Talavera's fight should Roderick 
gaze. 
And hear Corunna wail her battle won. 
And see Busaco's crest with lightning 
blaze: — 
But shall fond fable mix with heroes' 
praise ? 
Hath Fiction's stage for Truth's long 
triumphs room ? 
And dare her wild-flowers mingle with 
the bays 
That claim a long eternity to bloom 
Around the warrior's crest and o'er the 
warrior's tomb ! 549 

LXII 

Or may I give adventurous Fancy scope, 
And stretch a bold hand to the awful 
veil 
That hides futurity from anxious hope, 
Bidding beyond it scenes of glory 
hail. 
And painting Europe rousing at the 
tale 
Of Spain's invaders from her confines 
hurled, 
While kindling nations buckle on their 
mail, 
And Fame, with clarion - blast and 
wings unfurled, 
To freedom and revenge awakes an injured 
world ? 



CONCLUSION 



223 



LXIII 

O vain, though anxious, is the glance I 
cast. 
Since Fate has marked futurity her 
own: 560 

Yet Fate resigns to worth the glorious 
past, 
The deeds recorded and the laurels 
won. 
Then, though the Vault of Destiny be 
gone, 
King, prelate, all the phantasms of my 
brain. 
Melted away like mist-wreaths in the 
sun. 
Yet grant for faith, for valor, and for 
Spain, 
One note of pride and fire, a patriot's part- 
ing strain ! 



CONCLUSION 



* Who shall command Estrella's moun- 

tain-tide 
Back to the source, when tempest- 
chafed, to hie ? 
Who, when Gascogne's vexed gulf is 
raging wide. 
Shall hush it as a nurse her infant's 
cry ? 
His magic power let such vain boaster 
try, 
And when the torrent shall his voice 
obey, 
And Biscay's whirlwinds list his lullaby, 
Let him stand forth and bar mine 
eagles' way. 
And they shall heed his voice and at his 
bidding stay. 

II 

* Else ne'er to stoop till high on Lisbon's 

towers 10 

They close their wings, the symbol of 
our yoke, 
And their own sea hath whelmed yon 
red-cross powers ! ' 
Thus, on the summit of Alverca's 
rock, 
To marshal, duke, and peer Gaul's leader 
spoke. 
While downward on the land his le- 
gions press, 



Before them it was rich with vine and 
flock. 
And smiled like Eden in her summer 
dress ; — 
Behind their wasteful march a reeking wil« 
derness. 

Ill 

And shall the boastful chief maintain his 
word. 
Though Heaven hath heard the wail- 
ings of the land, 20 

Though Lusitania whet her vengeful 
sword. 
Though Britons arm and Welling- 
ton command ? 
No ! grim Busacos' iron ridge shall 
stand 
An adamantine barrier to his force; 
And from its base shall wheel his shat- 
tered band. 
As from the unshaken rock the torrent 
hoarse 
Bears off its broken waves and seeks a 
devious course. 

IV 

Yet not because Alcoba's mountain-hawk 
Hath on his best and bravest made 
her food. 
In numbers confident, yon chief shall 
balk 30 

His lord's imperial thirst for spoil and 
blood: 
For full in view the promised conquest 
stood. 
And Lisbon's matrons from their walls 
might sum 
The myriads that had half the world sub- 
dued, 
And hear the distant thunders of the 
drum 
That bids the bands of France to storm 
and havoc come. 



Four moons have heard these thunders 
idly rolled, 
Have seen these wistful myriads eye 
their prey, 
As famished wolves survey a guarded 
fold — 
But in the middle path a Lion lay ! 40 
At length they move — but not to battle- 
fray, 



€24 THE VISION OF 


DON RODERICK 


Nor blaze yon fires where meets the 


From thy dishonored name and arms 


manly fight; 


to clear — 


Beacons of infamy, they light the way 


Fallen child of Fortune, turn, redeem her 


Where cowardice and cruelty unite 


favor here ! 


To damn with double shame their ignomini- 




ous flight ! 


IX 


VI 


Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each distant 
aid; 
Those chief that never heard the lion 


triumph for the fiends of lust and 


wrath ! 


roar ! 


Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be forgot, 


Within whose souls lives not a trace por- 


What wanton horrors marked their 


trayed 


wrackful path ! 


Of Talavera or Mondego's shore ! 


The peasant butchered in his ruined 


Marshal each band thou hast and sum- 


cot. 


mon more; 


The hoary priest even at the altar shot, 50 


Of war's fell stratagems exhaust the 


Childhood and age given o'er to sword 


whole ; 


and flame. 


Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron 


Woman to infamy ; — no crime forgot. 


pour, 


By which inventive demons might pro- 


Legion on legion on thy foeman 


claim 


roll, 80 


Immortal hate to man and scorn of God's 


And weary out his arm — thou canst not 


great name ! 


quell his soul. 


VII 


X 


The rudest sentinel in Britain born 


vainly gleams with steel Agueda's 


With horror paused to view the havoc 


shore, 


done, 


Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava's 


Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch 


plain. 


forlorn. 


And front the flying thunders as they 


Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer 


roar. 


grasped his gun. 


With frantic charge and tenfold odds. 


Nor with less zeal shall Britain's peace- 


in vain ! 


ful son 


And what avails thee that for Cameron 


Exult the debt of sympathy to pay; 60 


slain 


Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun. 


Wild from his plaided ranks the yell 


Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor 


was given ? 


the gay. 


Vengeance and grief gave mountain-rage 


Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's 


the rein. 


more worthless lay. 


And, at the bloody spear-point head- 
long driven. 
Thy despot's giant guards fled like the rack 


VIII 


But thou — unf oughten wilt thou yield to 
Fate, 
Minion of Fortune, now miscalled in 


of heaven. 90 


XI 


vain ! 


Go, baffled boaster ! teach thy haughty 


Can vantage-ground no confidence cre- 


mood 


ate, 


To plead at thine imperious master's 


Marcella's pass, nor Guarda's moun- 


throne ! 


tain-chain ? 


Say, thou hast left his legions in their 


Vainglorious fugitive, yet turn again ! 


blood. 


Behold, where, named by some pro- 


Deceived his hopes and frustrated 


phetic seer, 


thine own; 


Flows Honor's Fountain, as foredoomed 


Say, that thine utmost skill and valoi 


the stain 70 


shown 



valoi Ml 

J 



CONCLUSION 



225 



By British skill and valor were out- 
vied; 
Last say, thy conqueror was Welling- 
ton ! 
And if he chafe, be his own fortune 
tried — 
God and our cause to friend, the venture 
we '11 abide. 

XII 

But you, the heroes of that well-fought 
day, loo 

How shall a bard unknowing and un- 
known 
His meed to each victorious leader pay. 
Or bind on every brow the laurels 
won? 
Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest 
tone. 
O'er the wide sea to hail Cadogan 
brave; 
And he perchance the minstrel-note 
might own, 
Mindful of meeting brief that Fortune 
gave 
Mid yon far western isles that hear the 
Atlantic rave. 

XIII 

Yes ! hard the task, when Britons wield 
the sword 
To give each chief and every field its 
fame : i lo 

Hark ! Albuera thunders Beresford, 
And red Barosa shouts for dauntless 
Graeme ! 
O for it verse of tumult and of flame. 
Bold as the bursting of their cannon 
sound. 
To bid the world re-echo to their fame ! 
For never upon gory battle-ground 
With conquest's well-bought wreath were 
braver victors crowned ! 

XIV 
O who shall grudge him Albu era's bays 
Who brought a race regenerate to the 
field, 
Roused them to emulate their fathers' 
praise, 120 

Tempered their headlong rage, their 
courage t^teeled. 
And raised fair Lusitania's fallen shield, 
And gave new edge to Lusitania's 
sword, 



And taught her sons forgotten arms to 
wield — 
Shivered my harp and burst its every 
chord. 
If it forget thy worth, victorious Beres- 
ford ! 

XV 

Not on that bloody field of battle 
won. 
Though Gaul's proud legions rolled 
like mist away, 
Was half his self -devoted valor shown, — 
He gaged but life on that illustrious 
day; ^ 130 

But when he toiled those squadrons to 
array 
Who fought like Britons in the bloody 
game, 
Sharper than Polish pike or assagay, 
He braved the shafts of censure and 
of shame. 
And, dearer far than life, he pledged a 
soldier's fame. 

XVI 

Nor be his praise o'erpast who strove to 
hide 
Beneath the warrior's vest affection's 
wound. 
Whose wish Heaven for his country's 
weal denied; 
Danger and fate he sought, but glory 
found. 
From clime to clime, where'er war's 
trumpets sound, 140 

The wanderer went; yet, Caledonia ! 
still 
Thine was his thought in march and 
tented ground; 
He dreamed mid Alpine cliffs of Ath- 
ole's hill. 
And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyndoch's 
lovely rill. 

XVII 

O hero of a race renowned of old, 

Whose war-cry oft has waked the 
battle-swell, 
Since first distinguished in the onset 
bold. 
Wild sounding when the Roman ram- 
part fell ! 
By Wallace' side it rung the Southron's 
knell, 



226 



ROKEBY 



Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned 
its fame, 150 

TummelFs rude pass can of its terrors 
tell, 
But ne'er from prouder field arose the 
name 
Than when wild Ronda learned the con- 
quering shout of Gr^me ! 

XVIII 

But all too long, through seas unknown 
and dark, — 
With Spenser's parable I close my 
tale, — 



By shoal and rock hath steered my ven- 
turous bark. 
And landward now I drive before the 
gale. 
And now the blue and distant shore I 
hail. 
And nearer now I see the port ex- 
pand. 
And now I gladly furl my weary 
sail, 160 

And as the prow light touches on the 
strand, 
I strike my red- cross flag and bind my 
skiff to land. 



ROKEBY 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



Mr. Monitt, to •whom Scott dedicates 
Rokeby, and in whose beautiful estate the 
scene of the poem is laid, was introduced to 
the poet in the early summer of 1808, and an 
intimacy began which was one of the most 
agreeable elements in Scott's life. Twenty 
years later when paying him a visit, Scott re- 
corded in his Journal (ii. 195): ' He is now 
one of my oldest, and, I believe, one of my 
most sincere friends, a man unequalled in the 
mixture of sound good sense, high literary cul- 
tivation, and the kindest and sweetest temper 
that ever graced a human bosom.' The in- 
timacy led to a long correspondence and to 
frequent interchange of visits. Mr. Morritt's 
own recollections of Scott form a delightful 
contribution in Lockhart's Life. He visited 
Scott in Edinburgh when he first made his ac- 
quaintance, and Scott returned the visit a year 
later. The beauty of Rokeby made a great 
impression upon him, as may be seen by his 
letter to Gsorge Ellis, July 8, 1809, and it is 
most probable that in taking the step which 
led to the purchase of Abbotsford, and re- 
moval from Ashestiel, Scott was influenced by 
his admiration for his friend's estate. At any 
rate, Scott palpably connected the writing of 
the poem Rokeby with the enlargement of his 
domain, and asked eagerly Morritt to aid him 
in his poetical venture. 

' I have a grand project to tell you of,' he 
writes December 20, 1811. " Nothing less than 
a fourth romance, in verse ; the theme, during^ 
the English civil wars of Charles I., and the 
scene, your own domain of Rokeby. I want 
to build my cottage a little better than my 
limited finances will permit out of my ordinary 



income ; and although it is very true that an 
author should not hazard his reputation, yet, 
as Bob Acres says, I really think Reputation 
should take some care of the gentleman in re- 
turn. Now, I have all your scenery deeply 
imprinted in my memory, and moreover, be it 
known to you, I intend to refresh its traces 
this ensuing summer, and to go as far as the 
borders of Lancashire, and the caves of York- 
shire, and so perhaps on to Derbyshire. I 
have sketched a story which pleases me, and I 
am only anxious to keep my theme quiet, for 
its being piddled upon by some of your Ready- 
to-catch literati, as John Bunyan calls them, 
would be a serious misfortune to me. I am 
not without hope of seducing you to be my 
gnide a little way on my tour. Is there not 
some book (sense or nonsense I care not) on 
the beauties of Teesdale — I mean a descrip- 
tive work ? If you can point it out or lend it 
me, you will do me a great favour, and no less 
if you can tell me any traditions of the period. 
By which party was Barnard castle occupied ? 
It strikes me that it should be held for the 
Parliament. Pray help me in this, by truth, 
or fiction, or tradition, — I care not which if 
it be picturesque. What the deuce is the 
name of that wild glen, where we had such 
a clamber on horseback up a stone staircase ? 
— Cat's Cradle, or Cat's Castle, I think it 
was. I wish also to have the true edition of 
the traditionary tragedy of your old house at 
Mortham, and the ghost thereunto appertain- 
ing, and you will do me yeoman's service in 
compiling" the relics of so valuable a legend. 
Item — Do you know anything of a striking 
ancient castle, belonging, I think, to the Duke 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



227 



of Leeds, called Coningsburgh ? Grose no- 
tices it, but in a very flimsy manner. I once 
flew past it on the mail-coach, when its romid 
tower and flying- buttresses had a most roman- 
tic effect in the morning dawn.' 

Whereupon Mr. Morritt girded himself and 
addressed himself thoroughly to the task of 
supplying Scott with the needed material, and 
of making suggestions for the construction of 
the poem which were clearly heeded by the 
poet. The correspondence between the two 
friends continued during the winter and spring 
of 1812, and Morritt furnished further mem- 
orabilia in answer to questions, and Scott 
divided his time between his poem and the 
estate which it was to help pay for. ' My 
work Bokeby does and must go forward,' he 
writes March 2, 1812, ' or my trees and enclos- 
ures might, perchance, stand still. But I de- 
stroyed the first canto after I had written it 
fair out, because it did not quite please me. 
I shall keep off people's kibes if I can, for 
my plan, though laid during the civil wars, 
has little to do with the politics of either 
party, being very much confined to the adven- 
tures and distresses of a particular family.' 

In the same letter he says that he must 
certainly refresh his memory with the scenery, 
in spite of the serviceable memoranda of Mr. 
Morritt, and in the autumn of 1812 he went 
with Mrs. Scott, Walter, and Sophia to Rokeby, 
remaining there about a week. It was while 
he was on this visit that Mr. Morritt made 
that interesting note on Scott's habits of ob- 
servation which has often been quoted for the 
light it throws on the poet's attitude toward 
his work. 

* I observed him,' says Morritt, ' noting 
down even the peculiar little wild flowers and 
herbs that accidentally grew round and on the 
side of a told crag near his intended cave of 
Guy Denzil ; and could not help saying, that 
as he was not to be on oath in his work, 
daisies, violets, and primroses would be as 
poetical as any of the humble plants he was 
examining. I laughed, in short, at his scrupu- 
lousness ; but I understood him when he re- 
plied, " that in nature herself no two scenes 
were exactly alike, and that whoever copied 
truly what was before his eyes, would possess 
the same variety in his descriptions, and ex- 
hibit apparently an imagination as boundless 
as the range of nature in the scenes he re- 
corded ; whereas — whoever trusted to imagi- 
nation, would soon find his own mind circum- 
scribed, and contracted to a few favorite 
images, and the repetition of tliese would 
sooner or later produce that very monotony 
and barrenness wliich had always liaunted 
descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the 
patient worshippers of ti-uth. Besides which," 



he said, " local names and peculiarities make 
a fictitious story book look so much better in 
the face." ' 

The poem gave its author a good deal of 
trouble, since he was unwontedly anxious to 
do it well, and he destroyed his work and re- 
attacked it, finally pushing it to a conclusion 
in the three months at the close of 1812. As 
usual, during the process of composition and 
when it was completed he sought the criticism 
of his friends. 'There are two or three 
songs,' he wrote Morritt, ' and particularly one 
in praise of Brignal Banks, which I trust 
you will like — because, entre nous, I like them 
myself. One of them is a little dashing ban- 
ditti song, called and entitled Allen-a-Dale.' 
Scott, indeed, gives Joanna Baillie a curious 
coincidence in the discovery, on reading her 
' Passion of Fear,' that she had an outlaw's 
song of which the chorus was almost verbatim 
that which he had written for his outlaw's 
song in Bokeby, so that he was forced to re- 
write that song. Miss Baillie herself repaid 
him with an enthusiastic letter after reading 
JRokeby. ' I wish you could have seen me,' 
she writes, 'when it arrived. My sister was 
from home, so I stirred my fire, swept the 
hearth, chased the cat out of the room, lighted 
my candles, and began upon it immediately. 
It is written with wonderful power both as to 
natural objects and human character ; and 
your magnificent bandit, Bertram, is well en- 
titled to your partiality ; for it is a masterly 
picture, and true to nature in all its parts, 
according to my conceptions of nature. Your 
Lady and both her lovers are very pleasing 
and beautifully drawn, her conduct and be- 
havior to them both is so natural and delicate ; 
and so is theirs to each other. How many 
striking passages there are which take a hold 
of the imagination that can never be unloosed ! 
The burning of the castle in all its progress is 
very sublime ; the final scene, also, when Ber- 
tram rides into the church, is grand and terri- 
fic; the scene between liim and Edmund, when 
he weeps to find that there is any liuman being 
that will shed a tear for him, is very touching 
and finely imagined. I say notliing of what 
struck me so much in the three first cantos. 
And besides those higher beauties, there are 
those of a softer kind that are wonderfully 
attractive ; for instance, the account of the 
poor Irishman's death, after he had delivered 
the child to the Lord of Rokeby, which made 
me weep freely, and the stealing of Edmund 
back to the cave by night with all the indica- 
tions of his silent path, the owlet ceasing its 
cry, \\\e otter leaping into the stream, etc., 
is deliglitful. Your images and sinnh's too, 
with which the work is not overloaded (like a 
lady with a few jewels, but of the best water), 



228 



ROKEBY 



are excellent. Your song^ are good, particu- 
larly those of Wilfrid ; but they have struck 
me less, somehow or other, than the rest of 
the poem. As to the invention of your story, 
I praise that more sparingly, for tho' the lead- 
ing circumstances are well imagined, the con- 
ducting of it seems to me too dramatic for a 
lyrical narrative, and there are too many com- 
plex contrivances to the bringing about the 
catastrophe.' 

Miss Baillie proceeded, with some sagacity, 
to predict that Scott's mind was working to- 
ward dramatic composition. Her criticism of 
Kokeby indeed implies that the story would 
have lent itself better to a form which per- 
mitted a greater elaboration of character and 
plot. Only the next year, Scott was to per- 
fect his Waverley. In truth, in Bokeby, Scott's 
interest, though largely in the presentation of 
his friend's domain, was specifically in char- 
acter, and the heroine especially was the 
reflection, in imaginative form, of that early 



love, whose influence had already been felt in 
The Lay of the Last Minstrel. Writing to 
Miss Edgeworth, five years after the appear- 
ance of Rokehy, he says : ' This much of Ma- 
tilda I recollect — (for that is not so easily 
forgotten) — that she was attempted for the 
existing person of a lady who is now no more, 
so that I am particularly flattered with your 
distinguishing it from the others, which are in 
general mere shadows.' And Lockhart, quot- 
ing this, adds : ' I can have no doubt that the 
lady he here alludes to, was the object of his 
own unfortunate first love ; and as little, that 
in the romantic generosity, both of the youth- 
ful poet who fails to win her higher favor, and 
of his chivalrous competitor, we have before 
us something more than '* a mere shadow." ' 

Hokehy was published the first week in Jan- 
uary, ISlo. and bore the dedication to Mr. 
Morritt. When the poem was issued in the 
collective edition of 1830, it was preceded by 
the following Introduction. 



INTRODUCTION 



Between the publication of The Lady of 
the Lake, which was so eminently successful, 
and that of Rokeby. in 1813, three years had 
intervened. I shall not, I believe, be accused 
of ever having attempted to usurp a superior- 
ity over many men of genius, my contempora- 
ries ; but, in point of popularity, not of actual 
talent, the caprice of the public had certainly 
given me such a temporary superiority over 
men, of whom, in regard to poetical fancy and 
feeling, I scarcely thought myself worthy to 
loose the shoe-latch. On the other hand, it 
would be absurd affectation in me to deny, 
that I conceived myself to understand, more 
perfectly than many c*" ~»iy contemporaries, 
the manner most 1'^ ^y i ' 'terest the great 
mass of mankind. ^^ ev -'< ith this belief, 
I must truly and %i*?, 1 " ^' 1 always con- 
sidered myself ra^^^Uis, e^ 3 held the bets 
in time to be paid t in ^ - ^ o winner, than as 
having any pretenccie o' eep them in my own 
right. '^ 

In the mean time years crept on, and not 
without their usual depredations on the passing 
generation. My sons had arrived at the age 
when the paternal home was no longer their 
best abode, as both were destined to active 
life. The field-sports, to which I was pecul- 
iarly attached, had now less interest, and were 
replaced by other amusements of a more quiet 
character ; and the means and opportunity of 
pursuing these were to be sought for. I had, 
indeed, for some yeare attended to farming, a 
knowledge of which is, or at least was then, 



indispensable to the comfort of a family re- 
siding in a solitary country-house ; but al- 
though this was the favorite amusement of 
many of my friends, I have never been able to 
consider it as a source of pleasure. I never 
could think it a matter of passing importance, 
that my cattle or crops were better or more 
plentiful than those of my neighbors, and nev- 
ertheless I began to feel the necessity of some 
more quiet out-door occupation, different from 
those I had hitherto pursued. I purchased a 
small farm of about one hundred acres, with 
the purpose of planting and improving it, to 
which property circumstances afterwards en- 
abled me to make considerable additions ; and 
thus an era took place in my life, almost equal 
to the important one mentioned by the Vicar of 
Wakefield, when he removed from the Blue- 
room to the Brown. In point of neighborhood, 
at least, the change of residence made little 
more difference. Abbotsford, to which we re- 
moved, was only six or seven miles down the 
Tweed, and lay on the same beautiful stream. 
It did not i)ossess the romantic character of 
Ashestiel. my former residence ; but it had a 
stretch of meadow-land along the river, and 
possessed, in the phrase of the landscape-gar- 
dener, considerable capabilities. Above all, 
the land was my own, like Uncle Toby's Bowl- 
ing-green, to do what I would with. It had 
been, though the gratification was long post- 
poned, an early wish of mine to connect my- 
self with my mother earth, and prosecute those 
experiments by which a species of creative 



AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 



229 



power is exercised over the face of nature. I 
can trace, even to childhood, a pleasure derived 
from Dodsley's account of Shenstone's Lea- 
sowes, and I envied the poet much more for 
the pleasure of accomplishing* the objects de- 
tailed in his friend's sketch of his grounds, 
than for the possession of pipe, crook, flock, 
and Phillis to boot. My memory, also, tena- 
cious of quaint expressions, still retained a 
phrase which it had gathered from an old 
almanac of Charles the Second's time (when 
everything down to almanacs affected to be 
smart), in which the reader, in the month of 
June, is advised for health's sake to walk a 
mile or two every day before breakfast, and, 
if he can possibly so manage, to let his exer- 
cise be taken upon his own land. 

With the satisfaction of having attained the 
fulfilment of an early and long-cherished hope, 
I commenced my improvements, as delight- 
ful in their progress as those of the child who 
first makes a dress for a new doll. The naked- 
ness of the land was in time hidden by wood- 
lands of considerable extent — the smallest of 
possible cottages was progressively expanded 
into a sort of dream of a mansion-house, whim- 
sical in the exterior, but convenient within. 
Nor did I forget what is the natural pleasure 
of every man who has been a reader ; I mean 
the filling the shelves of a tolerably large 
library. All these objects I kept in view, to 
be executed as convenience should serve ; and 
although I knew many years must elapse be- 
fore they could be attained, I was of a dispo- 
sition to comfort myself with the Spanish 
proverb, ' Time and I against any two.' 

The difficult and indispensable point of 
finding a permanent subject of occupation was 
now at length attained ; but there was an- 
nexed to it the necessity of becoming again 
a candidate for public favor; for as I was 
turned improver on the earth of the every-day 
world it was under condition that the small 
tenement of Parnassus, which might be access- 
ible to my labors, should not remain unculti- 
vated. 

I meditated, at first, a poem on the subject 
of Bruce, in which I made some progress, but 
afterwards judged it advisable to lay it aside, 
supposing that an English story might have 
more novelty ; in consequence, the precedence 
was given to llokthtj. 

If subject and scenery could have influ- 
enced the fate of a i)()em, tliat of Ixokcbji 
should have been eminently distinguished * for 
the grounds belonged to a dear friend, with 
whom I had lived in habits of intimacy for 
many years, and the place its(;lf united tlio 
romantic beauties of the wilds of Scotland with 
the rich and smiling aspect of \\\o. soutliern 
portion of tlie island. But the Cavaliei's and 



Roundheads, whom I attempted to summon 
up to tenant this beautiful region, had for the 
public neither the novelty nor the peculiar 
interest of the primitive Highlanders. This, 
perhaps, was scarcely to be expected, consider- 
ing that the general mind sympathizes read- 
ily and at once with the stamp which nature 
herself has affixed upon the manners of a peo- 
ple living in a simple and patriarchal state ; 
whereas it has more difficulty in understand- 
ing or interesting itself in manners founded 
upon those peculiar habits of thinking or act- 
ing which are produced by the progress of so- 
ciety. We could read with pleasure the tale 
of the adventures of a Cossack or a Mongol 
Tartar, while we only wonder and stare over 
those of the lovers in the Pleasing Chinese His- 
tory, where the embarrassments turn upon 
difficulties arising out of unintelligible deli- 
cacies peculiar to the customs and manners of 
that affected people. 

' The cause of my failure had, however, a 
far deeper root. The manner, or style, which, 
by its novelty, attracted the public in an un- 
usual degree, had now, after having been three 
times before them, exhausted the patience of 
the reader, and began in the fourth to lose its 
charms. The reviewers may be said to have 
apostrophized the author in the language of 
Parnell's Edwin : — 

' And here reverse the charm, he cries, 
And let it fairly now suffice, 
The gambol has been shown.' 

The licentious combination of rhynaes, in a 
manner perhaps not very congenial to our lan- 
guage, had not been confined to the author. 
Indeed, in most similar cases, the inventors of 
such novelties have their reputation destroyed 
by their own imitators, as Actjeon fell under 
the fury of his own dogs. The present author, 
like Bobadil, had ta,us:ht his trick of fence to 
a hundred gentle; ' (a*'! ladies), who could 
fence very near^ q" . s \^ell as himself. 

P'or this there ^' ^ y .ii,.i j ily ; the harmony 
became tireson^ ,here i y> ^^^^ both the 

original invento for L »'ention must have 

fallen into contenip. ^ J g had not found out 
another road to public ^.^li r. What has been 
said of the metre only, mist be considered to 
aj)ply equally to tlie structure of the Poem and 
of the style. The very best passages of any 
popular style are not, perhaps, susceptible of 
imitation, but they may be approached by men 
of talent ; and those who are less able to copy 
them, at least lay hold of their peculiar fea- 
tures, so as to produce a strong burlesque. In 
either way, the effect of the manner is rendered 
cheap and common ; and, in the latter case, 
ridiculous to boot. The evil consequences to 
an author's reputation are at least :vs fatal as 



239 



ROKEBY 



those which come upon the musical composer 
when his melody falls into the hands of the 
street ballad-singer. 

Of the unfavorable species of imitation, the 
author's style gave room to a very large num- 
ber, owing to an appearance of facility to which 
some of those who used the measure unques- 
tionably leaned too far. The effect of the more 
favorable imitations, composed by persons of 
talent, was almost equally unfortunate to the 
original minstrel, by showing that they could 
overshoot him with his own bow. In short, the 
popularity which once attended the School, as 
it was called, was now fast decaying. 

Besides all this, to have kept his ground at 
the crisis when Kokehy appeared, its author 
ought to have put forth his utmost strength, and 
to have possessed at least all his original advan- 
tages, for a mighty and unexpected rival was 
advancing on the stage, — a rival not in poetical 
powers only, but in that art of attracting popu- 
larity, in which the present writer had hitherto 
preceded better men than himself. The reader 
will easily see that Byron is here meant, who, 
after a little velitation of no great promise, now 
appeared as a serious candidate, in the first two 
cantos of Childe Harold. I was astonished at 
the power evinced by that work, which neither 
the Hours of Idleness, nor the English Bards 
and Scotch Beviewers, had prepared me to ex- 
pect from its author. There was a depth in his 
thought, an eager abundance in his diction, 
which argued full confidence in the inexhaust- 
ible resources of which he felt himself pos- 
sessed, and there was some appearance of that 
labor of the file, which indicates that the author 
is conscious of the necessity of doing every 
justice to his work, that it may pass warrant. 
Lord Byron was also a traveller, a man whose 
ideas were fired by having seen, in distant 
scenes of difficulty and danger, the places whose 
very names are recorded in our bosoms as the 
shrines of ancient poetry. For his own misfor- 
tune, perhaps, but certainly to the high increase 
of his poetical character, nature had mixed 
in Lord Byron's system those passions which 
agitate the human heart with most violence, 
and which may be said to have hurried his 
bright career to an early close. There would 
have been little wisdom in measuring my force 
with so formidable an antagonist ; and I was 
as likely to tire of playing the second fiddle 
in the concert, as my audience of hearing me. 
Age also was advancing. I was growing in- 
sensible to those subjects of excitation by which 



youth is agitated. I had around me the most 
pleasant but least exciting of all society, that 
of kind friends and an affectionate family. My 
circle of employments was a narrow one ; it 
occupied me constantly, and it became daily 
more difficult for me to interest myself in poeti- 
cal composition : — 

' How happily the days of Thalaba went by ! ' 

Yet, though conscious that I must be, in the 
opinion of good judges, inferior to the place I 
had for four or five years held in letters, and 
feeling alike that the latter was one to which I 
had only a temporary right, I could not brook 
the idea of relinquishing literary occupation, 
which had been so long my chief diversion. 
Neither was I disposed to choose the alternative 
of sinking into a mere editor and commentator, 
though that was a species of labor which I had 
practised, and to which I was attached. But I 
could not endure to think that I might not, 
whether known or concealed, do something of 
more importance. My inmost thoughts were 
those of the Trojan Captain in the galley race : 

' Non jam, prima peto, Mnestheus, ueque vincere certo, 
Quanquam ! — sed superent, quibus hoc, Neptune, 

dedisti; 
Extremos pudeat rediisse : hoc vincite, cives, 
Et prohibete nef as. ' ^ 

^71. lib. V. 194. 

I had, indeed, some private reasons for my 
' Quanquam O ! ' which were not worse than 
those of Mnestheus. I have already hinted 
that the materials were collected for a poem on 
the subject of Bruce, and fragments of it had 
been shown to some of my friends, and received 
with applause. Notwithstanding, therefore, the 
eminent success of Byron, and the great chance 
of his taking the wind out of my sails, there 
was, I judged, a species of cowardice in desist- 
ing from the task which I had undertaken, and 
it was time enough to retreat when the battle 
should be more decidedly lost. The sale of 
Bokehy, excepting as compared with that of 
The Lady of the Lake, was in the highest degree 
respectable ; and as it included fifteen hundred 
quartos, in those quarto-reading days, the trade 
had no reason to be dissatisfied. 

Abbotsford, April, 1830. 

1 I seek not now the foremost palm to gain; 
Though yet — but ah ! that haughty wish is vain I 
Let those enjoy it whom the gods ordain. 
But to be last, the lags of all the race ! — 
Redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace. 

Dryden 



ROKEBY 

A POEM IN SIX CANTOS 



JOHN B. S. MORRITT, ESQ., 
THIS POEM 

THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFUL DEMESNE OF ROKEBY, 

IS INSCRIBED, IN TOKEN OF SINCERE FRIENDSHIP, BY 

WALTER SCOTT. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



The Scene of this Poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and shifts to the adjacent fortress of 
Barnard Castle, and to other places in that Vicinity. 

The Time occupied by the Action is a space of Five Days, Three of which are supposed to elapse between the end 
of the Fifth and the beginning of the Sixth Canto. 

The date of the supposed events is immediately subsequent to the great Battle of Marston Moor, 3d July, 1644. 
This period of public confusion has been chosen without any purpose of combining the Fable with the Military or 
Political Events of the Civil War, but only as affording a degree of probability to the Fictitious Narrative now pre- 
sented to the Public. 



CANTO FIRST 



The moon is in her summer glow, 

But hoarse and high the breezes blow. 

And, racking o'er her face, the cloud 

Varies the tincture of her shroud ; 

On Barnard's towers and Tees's stream. 

She changes as a guilty dream. 

When Conscience with remorse and fear 

Goads sleeping Fancy's wild career. 

Her light seems now the blush of shame, 

Seems now fierce anger's darker flame, 10 

Shifting that shade to come and go, 

Like apprehension's hurried glow; 

Then sorrow's livery dims the air, 

And dies in darkness, like despair. 

Such varied hues the warder sees 

Reflected from the Woodland Tees, 

Then from old Baliol's tower looks forth. 

Sees the clouds mustering in the north. 

Hears upon turret-roof and wall 

By fits the plashing rain-drop fall, 20 

Lists to the breeze's boding sound. 

And wraps his shaggy mantle round. 



23 « 



II 

Those towers, which in the changeful 

gleam 
Throw murky shadows on the stream, 
Those towers of Barnard hold a guest. 
The emotions of whose troubled breast, 
In wild and strange confusion driven, 
Rival the flitting rack of heaven. 
Ere sleep stern Oswald's senses tied, 
Oft had he changed his weary side, 30 

Composed his limbs, and vainly sought 
By effort strong to banish thought. 
Sleep came at length, but with a train 
Of feelings true and fancies vain, 
Mingling, in wild disorder cast. 
The expected future with the past. 
Conscience, anticipating time, 
Already rues the enacted crime. 
And calls her furies forth to shake 
The sounding scourge and hissing snake; 4a 
While her poor victim's outward throes 
Bear witness to his mental woes, 
And show what lesson may be read 
Beside a sinner's restless bed. 



232 



ROKEBY 



III 



Thus Oswald's laboring feelings trace 
Strange changes iu his sleeping face, 
Rapid and ominous as these 
With which the moonbeams tinge the Tees. 
There might be seen of shame the blush, 
There anger's dark and fiercer flush, 50 

While the perturbed sleeper's hand 
Seemed grasping dagger-knife or brand. 
Relaxed that grasp, the heavy sigh, 
The tear iu the half-opening eye. 
The pallid cheek and brow, confessed 
That grief was busy in his breast: 
Nor paused that mood — a sudden start 
Impelled the life-blood from the heart; 
Features convulsed and mutterings dread 
Show terror reigns in sorrow's stead. 60 
That pang the painful slumber broke, 
And Oswald with a start awoke. 

IV 

He woke, and feared again to close 

His eyelids in such dire repose; 

He woke, — to watch the lamp, and tell 

From hour to hour the castle-bell. 

Or listen to the owlet's cry. 

Or the sad breeze that whistles by, 

Or catch by fits the tuneless rhyme 

With which the warder cheats the time, 70 

And envying think how, when the sun 

Bids the poor soldier's watch be done, 

Couched on his straw and fancy-free, 

He sleeps like careless infancy. 



Far townward sounds a distant tread, 
And Oswald, starting from his bed, 
Hath caught it, though no human ear, 
Unsharpened by revenge and fear, 
Could e'er distinguish horse's clank. 
Until it reached the castle bank. 80 

Now nigh and plain the sound appears. 
The warder's challenge now he hears, 
Then clanking chains and levers tell 
That o'er the moat the drawbridge fell. 
And, in the castle court below, 
Voices are heard, and torches glow. 
As marshalling the stranger's way 
Straight for the room where Oswald lay; 
The cry was, * Tidings from the host, 
Of weight — a messenger comes post.' 90 
Stifling the tumult of his breast. 
His answer Oswald thus expressed, 
* Bring food and wine, and trim the fire; 
Admit the stranger and retire.' 



VI 



The stranger came with heavy stride; 

The morion's plumes his visage hide, 

And the buff-coat in ample fold 

Mantles his form's gigantic mould. 

Full slender answer deigned he 

To Oswald's anxious courtesy, ico 

But marked by a disdainful smile 

He saw and scorned the petty wile. 

When Oswald changed the torch's place, 

Anxious that on the soldier's face 

Its partial lustre might be thrown, 

To show his looks yet hide his own. 

His guest the while laid slow aside 

The ponderous cloak of tough bull's hide. 

And to the torch glanced broad and clear 

The corselet of a cuirassier; no 

Then from his brows the casque he drew 

And from the dank plume dashed the dew, 

From gloves of mail relieved his hands 

And spread them to the kindling brands. 

And, turning to the genial board. 

Without a health or pledge or word 

Of meet and social reverence said. 

Deeply he drank and fiercely fed, 

As free from ceremony's sway 

As famished wolf that tears his prey. 120 

VII 

With deep impatience, tinged with fear, 

His host beheld him gorge his cheer. 

And quaff the full carouse that lent 

His brow a fiercer hardiment. 

Now Oswald stood a space aside, 

Xow paced the room with hasty stride, 

In feverish agony to learn 

Tidings of deep and dread concern, 

Cursing each moment that his guest 

Protracted o'er his ruffian feast, 130 

Yet, viewing with alarm at last 

The end of that uncouth repast. 

Almost he seemed their haste to rue 

As at his sign his train withdrew. 

And left him with the stranger, free 

To question of his mystery. 

Then did his silence long proclaim 

A struggle between fear and shame. 

VIII 

Much in the stranger's mien appears 
To justify suspicious fears. 140 

On his dark face a scorching clime 
And toil had done the work of time, 
Roughened the brow, the temples bared, 
And sable hairs with silver shared. 



CANTO FIRST 



233 



Yet left — what age alone could tame — 
The lip of pride, the eye of flame; 
The full-drawn lip that upward curled, 
The eye that seemed to scorn the world. 
That lip had terror never blanched; 149 

Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop quenched 
The flash severe of swarthy glow 
That mocked at pain and knew not woe. 
Inured to danger's direst form, 
Tornado and earthquake, flood and storm, 
Death had he seen by sudden blow, 
By wasting plague, by tortures slow, 
By mine or breach, by steel or ball. 
Knew all his shapes and scorned them all. 

IX 

But yet, though Bertram's hardened look 
Unmoved could blood and danger brook. 
Still worse than apathy had place 161 

On his swart brow and callous face; 
For evil passions cherished long 
Had ploughed them with impressions 

strong. 
All that gives gloss to sin, all gay 
Light folly, past with youth away, 
But rooted stood in manhood's hour 
The weeds of vice without their flower. 
And yet the soil in which they grew. 
Had it been tamed when life was new, 170 
Had depth and vigor to bring forth 
The hardier fruits of virtubus worth. 
Not that e'en then his heart had known 
The gentler feelings' kindly tone; 
But lavish waste had been refined 
To bounty in his chastened mind. 
And lust of gold, that waste to feed, 
Been lost in love of glory's meed, 
And, frantic then no more, his pride 
Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide. 180 



Even now, by conscience unrestrained. 

Clogged by gross vice, by slaughter stained. 

Still knew his daring soul to soar. 

And mastery o'er the mind he bore; 

For meaner guilt or heart less hard 

Quailed beneath Bertram's bold regard. 

And this felt Oswald, while in vain 

He strove by many a winding train 

To lure his sullen guest to show 

Unasked the news he longed to know, 190 

While on far other subject hung 

His heart than faltered from his tongue. 

Yet nought for that his guest did deign 

To note or spare his secret pain, 



But still in stern and stubborn sort 
Returned him answer dark and short, 
Or started from the theme to range 
In loose digression wild and strange, 
And forced the embarrassed host to buy 
By query close direct reply. 200 

XI 

Awhile he glozed upon the cause 
Of Commons, Covenant, and Laws, 
And Church reformed — but felt rebuke 
Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look, 
Then stammered — * Has a field been 

fought ? 
Has Bertram news of battle brought ? 
For sure a soldier, famed so far 
In foreign fields for feats of war, 
On eve of fight ne'er left the host 
Until the field were won and lost.* 210 

* Here, in your towers by circling Tees, 
You, Oswald Wycliffe, rest at ease; 
Why deem it strange that others come 
To share such safe and easy home. 

From fields where danger, death, and 

toil 
Are the reward of civil broil ? ' — 

* Nay, mock not, friend ! since well we 

know 
The near advances of the foe. 
To mar our northern army's work. 
Encamped before beleaguered York 22c 
Thy horse with valiant Fairfax lay. 
And must have fought — how went the 

day?' 

XII 

* Wouldst hear the tale ? — On Marston 

heath 
Met front to front the ranks of death ; 
Flourished the trumpets fierce, and now 
Fired was each eye and flushed each brow; 
On either side loud clamors ring, 
" God and the Cause ! »' — " God and the 

King ! " 
Right English all, they rushed to blows, 
With nought to win and all to lose. 230 

I could have laughed — but lacked the 

time — 
To see, in phrenesy sublime, 
How the fierce zealots fought and bled 
For king or state, as humor led; 
Some for a dream of public good, 
Some for church-tippet, gown, and liood, 
Draining their veins, in deatli to claim 
A patriot's or a martyr's name. — 



234 



ROKEBY 



Led Bertram Risingham the hearts 

That countered there ou adverse parts, 240 

No superstitious fool had I 

Sought El Dorados iu the sky ! 

Chili had heard me through her states, 

And Lima oped her silver gates, 

Rich Mexico I had marched through, 

And sacked the splendors of Peru, 

Till sunk Pizarro's daring name, 

And, Cortez, thine, in Bertram's fame.' — 

* Still from the purpose wilt thou stray ! 
Good gentle friend, how went the day ? ' 250 

XIII 

* Good am I deemed at trumpet sound. 
And good where goblets dance the round. 
Though gentle ne'er was joined till now 
With rugged Bertram's breast and brow. — 
But I resume. The battle's rage 

Was like the strife which currents wage 

Where Orinoco in his pride 

Rolls to the main no tribute tide, 

But 'gainst broad ocean urges far 

A rival sea of roaring war; 260 

While, in ten thousand eddies driven. 

The billows fling their foam to heaven, 

And the pale pilot seeks in vain 

Where rolls the river, where the main 

Even thus upon the bloody field 

The eddying tides of conflict wheeled 

Ambiguous, till that heart of flame. 

Hot Rupert, on our squadrons came, 

Hurling against our spears a line 

Of gallants fiery as their wine ; 270 

Then ours, though stubborn in their zeal. 

In zeal's despite began to reel. 

What wouldst thou more ? — in tumult 

tost, 
Our leaders fell, our ranks were lost. 
A thousand men who drew the sword 
P'or both the Houses and the Word, 
Preached forth from hamlet, grange, and 

down, 
To curb the crosier and the crown, 
Now, stark and stiff, lie stretched in gore. 
And ne'er shall rail at mitre more. — 280 
Thus fared it when I left the fight 
With the good Cause and Commons* 

right.' — 

XIV 

* Disastrous news ! ' dark Wycliffe said; 
Assumed despondence bent his head. 
While troubled joy was in his eye, 

The well-feigned sorrow to belie. — 



* Disastrous news ! — when needed most. 
Told ye not that your chiefs were lost ? 
Complete the woful tale and say 
Who fell upon that fatal day, 290 
What leaders of repute and name 
Bought by their death a deathless fame. 
If such my direst foeman's doom. 
My tears shall dew his honored tomb. — 
No answer ? — Friend, of all our host. 
Thou know'st whom I should hate the 

most. 
Whom thou too once wert wont to bate, 
Yet leavest me doubtful of his fate.' — 
With look mimoved — * Of friend or foe. 
Aught,' answered Bertram, * wouldst thou 

know, ; 

Demand in simple terms and plain, 
A soldier's answer shalt thou gain; 
For question dark or riddle high 
I have nor judgment nor reply.' 

XV 

The wrath his art and fear suppressed 
Now blazed at once in Wycliffe's breast, 
And brave from man so meanly born 
Roused his hereditary scorn. 

* Wretch ! hast thou paid thy bloody debt ? 
Philip of Mortham, lives he yet ? 310 
False to thy patron or thine oath. 
Traitorous or perjured, one or both. 
Slave ! hast thou kept thy promise plight, 
To slay thy leader in the fight ? ' 

Then from his seat the soldier sprung. 
And Wycliffe's hand he strongly wrung; 
His grasp, as hard as glove of mail. 
Forced the red blood-drop from the nail — 

* A health ! ' he cried ; and ere he quaffed 
Flung from him Wycliffe's hand and 

laughed — 320 

* Now, Oswald Wycliffe, speaks thy heart f 
Now play'st thou well thy genuine part ! 
Worthy, but for thy craven fear. 

Like me to roam a buccaneer. 

What reck'st thou of the Cause divine, 

If Mortham 's wealth and lands be thine ? 

What carest thou for beleaguered York, 

If this good hand have done its work ? 

Or what though Fairfax and his best 

Are reddening Marston's swarthy breast, 330 

If Philip Mortham with them lie, 

Lending his life-blood to the dye ? — 

Sit, then ! and as mid comrades free 

Carousing after victory. 

When tales are told of blood and fear 

That boys and women shrink to hear, 



1 
II 



o 



CANTO FIRST 



235 



From point to point I frankly tell 
The deed of death as it befell. 

XVI 
< When purposed vengeance I forego, 
Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe; 340 
And when an insult I forgive, 
Then brand me as a slave and live ! — 
Philip of Mortham is with those 
Whom Bertram Risingham calls foes; 
Or whom more sure revenge attends, 
If numbered with ungrateful friends. 
As was his wont, ere battle glowed. 
Along the marshalled ranks he rode, 
And wore his visor up the while. 
I saw his melancholy smile 350 

When, full opposed in front, he knew 
Where Rokeby's kindred banner flew. 
" And thus," he said, " will friends di- 
vide!"— 
I heard, and thought how side by side 
We two had turned the battle's tide 
In many a well-debated field 
Where Bertram's breast was Philip's 

shield. 
I thought on Darien's deserts pale 
Where death bestrides the evening gale; 
How o'er my friend my cloak I threw, 360 
And fenceless faced the deadly dew; 
I thought on Quariana's cliff 
Where, rescued from our foundering skiff. 
Through the white breakers' wrath I bore 
Exhausted Mortham to the shore; 
And, when his side an arrow found, 
I sucked the Indian's venomed wound. 
These thoughts like torrents rushed along, 
To sweep away my purpose strong. 

XVII 

'Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent; 370 
Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent. 
When Mortham bade me, as of yore, 
Be near him in the battle's roar, 
I scarcely saw the spears laid low, 
I scarcely heard the trumpets blow; 
Lost was the war in inward strife. 
Debating Mortham's death or life. 
'T was then I thought how, lured to come 
As partner of his wealth and home. 
Years of piratic wandering o'er, 380 

With him I sought our native shore. 
But Mortham's lord grew far estranged 
From the bold heart with whom he ranged; 
Doubts, horrors, superstitious fears. 
Saddened and dimmed descending years; 



The wily priests their victim sought. 
And damned each free-born deed and 

thought. 
Then must I seek another home, 
My license shook his sober dome ; 
If gold he gave, in one wild day 390 

I revelled thrice the sura away. 
An idle outcast then I strayed. 
Unfit for tillage or for trade. 
Deemed, like the steel of rusted lance, 
Useless and dangerous at once. 
The women feared my hardy look. 
At my approach the peaceful shook; 
The merchant saw my glance of flame, 
And locked his hoards when Bertram came; 
Each child of coward peace kept far 400 
From the neglected son of war. 

XVIII 

* But civil discord gave the call, 
And made my trade the trade of all. 
By Mortham urged, I came again 
His vassals to the fight to train. 
What guerdon waited on my care ? 
I could not cant of creed or prayer; 
Sour fanatics each trust obtained. 
And I, dishonored and disdained, 
Gained but the high and happy lot 410 
In these poor arms to front the shot ! — 
All this thou know'st, thy gestures tell; 
Yet hear it o'er and mark it well. 

'T is honor bids me now relate 

Each circumstance of Mortham's fate. 

XIX 

* Thoughts, from the tongue that slowly 

part. 
Glance quick as lightning through the heart. 
As my spur pressed my courser's side, 
Philip of Mortham's cause was tried. 
And ere the charging squadrons mixed 420 
His plea was cast, his doom was fixed. 
I watched him through the doubtful fray. 
That changed as March's moody day, 
Till, like a stream that bursts its bank. 
Fierce Rupert thundered on our flank. 
'T was then, midst tumult, smoke, and 

strife. 
Where each man fought for death or life, 
'T was then I fired my petronel. 
And Mortham, steed and rider, fell. 
One dying look he upward cast, 430 

Of wrath and anguish — 't was his last. 
Think not that there I stopped, to view 
What of the battle should ensue; 



236 



ROKEBY 



But ere I cleared that bloodj press, 
Our northern horse ran masterless; 
Monckton and Mitton told the news 
How troops of Roundheads choked the 

Ouse, 
And many a bonny Scot aghast, 
Spurring his palfrey northward, past. 
Cursing the day when zeal or meed 440 

First lured their Lesley o'er the Tweed. 
Yet when I reached the banks of Swale, 
Had rumor learned another tale ; 
With his barbed horse, fresh tidings say. 
Stout Cromwell has redeemed the day: 
But whether false the news or true, 
Oswald, I reck as light as you.' 

XX 

Not then by Wycliffe might be shown 
How bis pride startled at the tone 
In which his complice, fierce and free, 450 
Asserted guilt's equality. 
In smoothest terms his speech he wove 
Of endless friendship, faith, and love; 
Promised and vowed in courteous sort. 
But Bertram broke professions short. 
* Wycliffe, be sure not here I stay, 
No, scarcely till the rising day; 
Warned by the legends of my youth, 
I trust not an associate's truth. 
Do not my native dales prolong 460 

Of Percy Rede the tragic song. 
Trained forward to his bloody fall, 
By Girsonfield, that treacherous Hall ? 
Oft by the Pringle's haunted side 
The shepherd sees his spectre glide. 
And near the spot that gave me name, 
The moated mound of Risingham, 
Where Reed upon her margin sees 
Sweet Woodburne's cottages and trees. 
Some ancient sculptor's art has shown 470 
An outlaw's image on the stone; 
Unmatched in strength, a giant he. 
With quivered back and kirtled knee. 
Ask how he died, that hunter bold, 
The tameless monarch of the wold, 
And age and infancy can tell 
By brother's treachery he fell. 
Thus warned by legends of my youth, 
I trust to no associate's truth. 



XXI 



* When last we reasoned of this deed, 
Nought, I bethink me, was agreed, 
Or by what rule, or when, or where. 
The wealth of Mortham we should share; 



480 



490 



Then list while I the portion name 

Our differing laws give each to claim. 

Thou, vassal sworn to England's throne. 

Her rules of heritage must own; 

They deal thee, as to nearest heir. 

Thy kinsman's lands and livings fair, 

And these I yield: — do thou revere 

The statutes of the buccaneer. 

Friend to the sea, and foeman sworn 

To all that on her waves are borne. 

When falls a mate in battle broil 

His comrade heirs his portioned spoil; 

When dies in fight a daring foe 

He claims his wealth who struck the 

blow; 
And either rule to me assigns 
Those spoils of Indian seas and mines 
Hoarded in Mortham's caverns dark; 500 
Ingot of gold and diamond spark. 
Chalice and plate from churches borne. 
And gems from shrieking beauty torn, 
Each string of pearl, each silver bar, 
And all the wealth of western war. 
I go to search where, dark and deep. 
Those trans- Atlantic treasures sleep. 
Thou must along — for, lacking thee. 
The heir will scarce find entrance free; 
And then farewell. I haste to try 
Each varied pleasure wealth can buy ; 
When cloyed each wish, these wars afford 
Fresh work for Bertram's restless sword.' 

XXII 
An undecided answer hung 
On Oswald's hesitating tongue. 
Despite his craft, he heard with awe 
This ruffian stabber fix the law; 
While his own troubled passions veer 
Through hatred, joy, regret, and fear: — 
Joyed at the soul that Bertram flies, 520 
He grudged the murderer's mighty prize. 
Hated his pride's presumptuous tone. 
And feared to wend with him alone. 
At length, that middle course to steer 
To cowardice and craft so dear, 

* His charge,' he said, * would ill allow 
His absence from the fortress now; 
Wilfrid on Bertram should attend. 
His son should journey with his friend.' 

XXIII 

Contempt kept Bertram's anger down, 530 
And wreathed to savage smile his frown. 

* Wilfrid, or thou — 't is one to me, 
Whichever bears the golden key. 



I 



510 



CANTO FIRST 



237 



Yet think not but I mark, and smile 

To mark, thy poor and selfish wile ! 

If injury from me you fear, 

What, Oswald Wycliffe, shields thee here ? 

I Ve sprung from walls more high than 

these, 
I Ve swam through deeper streams than 

Tees. 
Might I not stab thee ere one yell 540 

Could rouse the distant sentinel ? 
Start not — it is not my design, 
But, if it were, weak fence were thine ; 
And, trust me that in time of need 
This hand hath done more desperate 

deed. 
Go, haste and rouse thy slumbering son ; 
Time calls, and I must needs be gone.' 

XXIV 

Nought of his sire's ungenerous part 

Polluted Wilfrid's gentle heart, 

A heart too soft from early life 550 

To hold with fortune needful strife. 

His sire, while yet a hardier race 

Of numerous sons were Wycliffe's grace. 

On Wilfrid set contemptuous brand 

For feeble heart and forceless hand; 

But a fond mother's care and joy 

Were centred in her sickly boy. 

No touch of childhood's frolic mood 

Showed the elastic spring of blood: 

Hour after hour he loved to pore 560 

On Shakespeare's rich and varied lore, 

But turned from martial scenes and light, 

From Falstaff's feast and Percy's fight, 

To ponder Jaques' moral strain. 

And muse with Hamlet, wise in vain, 

And weep himself to soft repose 

O'er gentle Desdemona's woes. 

XXV 

In youth he sought not pleasures found 
By youth in horse and hawk and hound. 
But loved the quiet joys that wake 570 

By lonely stream and silent lake; 
In Deepdale's solitude to lie. 
Where all is cliff and copse and sky; 
To climb Catcastle's dizzy peak. 
Or lone Pendragon's mound to seek. 
Such was his wont; and there his dream 
Soared on some wild fantastic theme 
Of faithful love or ceaseless spring, 
Till Contemplation's wearied wing 
The enthusiast could no more sustain, 580 
And sad be sunk to earth again. 



XXVI 

He loved — as many a lay can tell. 
Preserved in Stanmore's lonely dell; 
For his was minstrel's skill, he caught 
The art unteachable, untaught; 
He loved — his soul did nature frame 
For love, and fancy nursed the flame; 
Vainly he loved — for seldom swain 
Of such soft mould is loved again; 
Silent he loved — in every gaze 59c 

Was passion, friendship in his phrase; 
So mused his life away — till died 
His brethren all, their father's pride. 
Wilfrid is now the only heir 
Of all his stratagemci and care. 
And destined darkling to pursue 
Ambition's maze by Oswald's clue. 

XXVII 

Wilfrid must love and woo tlie bright 
Matilda, heir of Rokeby's knight. 
To love her was an easy best, 600 

The secret empress of his breast; 
To woo her was a harder task 
To one that durst not hope or ask. 
Yet all Matilda could she gave 
In pity to her gentle slave ; 
Friendship, esteem, and fair regard, 
And praise, the poet's best reward ! 
She read the tales his taste approved, 
And sung the lays he framed or loved; 
Yet, loath to nurse the fatal flame 610 

Of hopeless love in friendship's name, 
In kind caprice she oft withdrew 
The favoring glance to friendship due, 
Then grieved to see her victim's pain, 
And gave the dangerous smiles again. 

XXVIII 

So did the suit of Wilfrid stand 

When war's loud summons waked the 

land. 
Three banners, floating o'er the Tees, 
ilie woe-foreboding peasant sees; 
In concert oft they braved of old 62a 

The bordering Scot's incursion bold: 
Frowning defiance in their pride, 
Their vassals now and lords divide. 
From his fair hall on Greta banks. 
The Knight of Rokeby led his ranks. 
To aid the valiant northern earls 
Who drew the sword for royal Charles. 
Mortham, by marriage near allied, — 
His sister had been Rokeby's bride. 
Though long before the civil fray 630 



22>^ 



ROKEBY 



In peaceful grave the lady lay, — 
Philip of Mortham raised his band, 
And marched at Fairfax's command; 
While Wy cliff e, bound by many a train 
Of kindred art with wily Vane, 
Less prompt to brave the bloody field, 
Made Barnard's battlements his shield, 
Secured them with his Lunedale powers, 
And for the Commons held the towers. 

XXIX 

The lovely heir of Rokeby's Knight 640 

Waits in his halls the event of fight; 

For England's war revered the claim 

Of every unprotected name, 

And spared amid its fiercest rage 

Childhood and womanhood and age. 

But Wilfrid, son to Rokeby's foe, 

Must the dear privilege forego. 

By Greta's side in evening gray, 

To steal upon Matilda's way. 

Striving ^vdth fond hypocrisy 650 

For careless step and vacant eye; 

Calming each anxious look and glance. 

To give the meeting all to chance, 

Or framing as a fair excuse 

The book, the pencil, or the muse; 

Something to give, to sing, to say. 

Some modern tale, some ancient lay. 

Then, while the longed-for minutes last, — 

Ah ! minutes quickly over-past ! — 

Recording each expression free 660 

Of kind or careless courtesy. 

Each friendly look, each softer tone. 

As food for fancy when alone. 

All this is o'er — but still unseen 

Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green. 

To watch Matilda's wonted round. 

While springs his heart at every sound. 

She comes ! — 't is but a passing sight. 

Yet serves to cheat his weary night; 

She comes not — he will wait the hour 670 

When her lamp lightens in the tower; 

'T is something yet if, as she past. 

Her shade is o'er the lattice cast. 

* What is my life, my hope ? ' he said; 

* Alas ! a transitory shade.' 

XXX 

Thus wore his life, though reason strove 

For mastery in vain with love. 

Forcing upon his thoughts the sum 

Of present woe and ills to come, 

While still he turned impatient ear 680 

From Truth's intrusive voice severe. 



Gentle, indifferent, and subdued. 
In all but this unmoved he viewed 
Each outward change of ill and good: 
But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild, 
Was Fancy's spoiled and wayward child; 
In her bright car she bade him ride. 
With one fair form to grace his side, 
Or, in some wild and lone retreat. 
Flung her high spells around his seat, 690 
Bathed in her dews his languid head, 
Her fairy mantle o'er him spread, 
For him her opiates gave to flow. 
Which he who tastes can ne'er forego, 
And placed him in her circle, free 
From every stern reality. 
Till to the Visionary seem 
Her day-dreams truth, and truth a dream. 

XXXI 

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains, 
Winning from Reason's hand the reins, 700 
Pity and woe ! for such a mind 
Is soft, contemplative, and kind; 
And woe to those who train such youth, 
And spare to press the rights of truth, 
The mind to strengthen and anneal 
While on the stithy glows the steel ! 
O teach him while your lessons last 
To judge the present by the past; 
Remind him of each wish pursued, 
How rich it glowed with promised good; 710 
Remind him of each wish enjoyed, 
How soon his hopes possession cloyed ! 
Tell him we play unequal game 
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim; 
And, ere he strip him for her race, 
Show the conditions of the chase: 
Two sisters by the goal are set. 
Cold Disappointment and Regret; 
One disenchants the winner's eyes. 
And strips of all its worth the prize. 720 
While one augments its gaudy show, 
More to enhance the loser's woe. 
The victor sees his fairy gold 
Transformed when won to drossy mould. 
But still the vanquished mourns his loss. 
And rues as gold that glittering dross. 

XXXII 

More wouldst thou know — yon tower sur- 
vey. 
Yon couch unpressed since parting day. 
Yon untrimmed lamp, whose yellow gleam 
Is mingling with the cold moonbeam, 730 
And yon thin form ! — the hectic red 



CANTO SECOND 



239 



On his pale cheek unequal spread; 

The head reclined, the loosened hair, 

The limbs relaxed, the mournful air. — 

See, he looks up ; — a wof ul smile 

Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while, — 

'T is Fancy wakes some idle thought. 

To gild the ruin she has wrought; 

For, like the bat of Indian brakes. 

Her pinions fan the wound she makes, 740 

And, soothing thus the dreamer's pain. 

She drinks his life-blood from the vein. 

Now to the lattice turn his eyes, 

Vain hope ! to see the sun arise. 

The moon with clouds is still o'ercast, 

Still howls by fits the stormy blast; 

Another hour must wear away 

Ere the east kindle into day. 

And hark ! to waste that weary hour, 

He tries the minstrel's magic power. 750 

XXXIII 

SONG 

TO THE MOON 

Hail to thy cold and clouded beam, 

Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky ! 
Hail, though the mists that o'er thee stream 

Lend to thy brow their sullen dye ! 
How should thy pure and peaceful eye 

Untroubled view our scenes below, 
Or how a tearless beam supply 

To light a world of war and woe ! 

Fair Queen ! I will not blame thee now. 

As once by Greta's fairy side; 760 

Each little cloud that dimmed thy brow 

Did then an angel's beauty hide. 
And of the shades I then could chide, 

Still are the thoughts to memory dear, 
For, while a softer strain I tried. 

They hid my blush and calmed my fear. 

Then did I swear thy ray serene 

Was formed to light some lonely dell. 
By two fond lovers only seen. 

Reflected from the crystal well; 770 

Or sleeping on their mossy cell. 

Or quivering on the lattice bright, 
Or glancing on their couch, to tell 

How swiftly wanes the summer night ! 



XXXIV 



He starts - 
A voice ! - 



- a step at this lone hour ! 
• his father seeks the tower, 



With haggard look and troubled sense, 

Fresh from his dreadful conference. 

' Wilfrid ! — what, not to sleep addressed ? 

Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest. 780 

Mortham has fallen on Marston-moor; 

Bertram brings warrant to secure 

His treasures, bought by spoil and blood, 

For the state's use and public good. 

The menials will thy voice obey; 

Let his commission have its way, 

In every point, in every word.' 

Then, in a whisper, — * Take thy sword ! 

Bertram is — what I must not tell. 

I hear his hasty step — farewell 1 ' 790 



CANTO SECOND 



Far in the chambers of the west. 
The gale had sighed itself to rest; 
The moon was cloudless now and clear, 
But pale and soon to disappear. 
The thin gray clouds waxed dimly light 
On Brusleton and Houghton height; 
And the rich dale that eastward lay 
Waited the. wakening touch of day. 
To give its woods and cultured plain. 
And towers and spires, to light again. 10 
But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell, 
And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell, 
And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, 
And Arkin garth, lay dark afar; 
While as a livelier twilight falls. 
Emerge proud Barnard's bannered walls. 
High crowned he sits in dawning pale, 
The sovereign of the lovely vale. 



What prospects from his watch-tower high 

Gleam gradual on the warder's eye ! — 20 

Far sweeping to the east, he sees 

Down his deep woods the course of Tees, 

And tracks his wanderings by the steam 

Of summer vapors from the stream; 

And ere he pace his destined hour 

I>V Brackenbury's dungeon-tower. 

These silver mists shall melt away 

And dew the woods with glittering spray. 

Then in broad lustre shall be shown 

That mighty trench of living stone, 30 

And each huge trunk that from tlio side 

Reclines him o'er the darksome tide 

Where Tees, full many a fathom low, 



240 



ROKEBY 



Wears with his rage no common foe; 
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here, 
Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, 
Condemned to mine a channelled way 
O'er solid sheets of marble gray. 

Ill 

Nor Tees alone in dawning bright 

Shall rush upon the ravished sight; 4< 

But many a tributary stream 

Each from its own dark cell shall gleam : 

Staindrop, who from her sylvan bowers 

Salutes proud Raby's battled towers; i 

The rural brook of Egliston, i 

And Balder, named from Odin's son; 

And Greta, to whose banks ere long j 

We lead the lovers of the song; 

And silver Lune from Stanmore wild, I 

And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child, 50 

And last and least, but loveliest still. 

Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. 

Who in that dim-wood glen hath strayed. 

Yet longed for Roslin's magic glade ? 

Who, wandering there, hath sought to 

change 
Even for that vale so stern and strange 
Where Cartland's crags, fantastic rent. 
Through her green copse like spires are 

sent ? . 

Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine, ' 

Thy scenes and story to combine ! 60 ' 

Thou bid'st him who by Roslin strays i 

List to the deeds of other days; ; 

Mid Cartland's crags thou show'st the ! 

cave. 
The refuge of thy champion brave; 
Giving each rock its storied tale, 
Pouring a lay for every dale, 
Knitting, as with a moral band. 
Thy native legends with thy land. 
To lend each scene the interest high 
Which genius beams from Beauty's eye. 70 

IV 

Bertram awaited not the sight 

Which sunrise shows from Barnard's 

height. 
But from the towers, preventing day. 
With Wilfrid took his early way. 
While misty dawn and moonbeam pale 
Still mingled in the silent dale. 
By Barnard's bridge of stately stone 
The southern bank of Tees they won; 
Their winding path then eastward cast, 
And Egliston's gray ruins passed; 80 



Each on his own deep visions bent, 
Silent and sad they onward went. 
Well may you think that Bertram's mood 
To Wilfrid savage seemed and rude; 
Well may you think bold Risingham 
Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame ; 
And small the intercourse, I ween. 
Such uncongenial souls between. 



Stern Bertram shunned the nearer way 
Through Rokeby's park and chase that 
lay, 90 , 

And, skirting high the valley's ridge, 
They crossed by Greta's ancient bridge, 
Descending where her waters wind 
Free for a space and unconfined 
As, 'scaped from Brignall's dark-wood glen, 
She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den. 
There, as his eye glanced o'er the mound 
Raised by that Legion long renowned 
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim 
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, 100 

* Stern sons of war ! ' sad Wilfrid sighed, 

* Behold the boast of Roman pride ! 
What now of all your toils are known ? 
A grassy trench, a broken stone ! * — 
This to himself; for moral strain 

To Bertram were addressed in vain. 



VI 

Of different mood a deeper sigh 

Awoke when Rokeby's turrets high 

Were northward in the dawning seen 

To rear them o'er the thicket green. uc 

O then, though Spenser's self had strayed 

Beside him through the lovely glade, 

Lending his rich luxuriant glow 

Of fancy all its charms to show, 

Pointing the stream rejoicing free 

As captive set at liberty. 

Flashing her sparkling waves abroad. 

And clamoring joyful on her road; 

Pointing where, up the sunny banks. 

The trees retire in scattered ranks, 12c 

Save where, advanced before the rest. 

On knoll or hillock rears his crest. 

Lonely and huge, the giant Oak, 

As champions when their band is broke 

Stand forth to guard the rearward post, 

The bulwark of the scattered host — 

All this and more might Spenser say, 

Yet waste in vain his magic lay, 

While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower 

Whose lattice lig^hts Matilda's bower. 150 



I 



CANTO SECOND 



241 



VII 

The open vale is soon passed o'er, 

Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more; 

Sinking mid Greta's thickets deep, 

A wild and darker course they keep, 

A stern and lone yet lovely road 

As e'er the foot of minstrel trode ! 

Broad shadows o'er their passage fell. 

Deeper and narrower grew the dell; 

It seemed some mountain, rent and riven, 

A channel for the stream had given, 140 

So high the cliffs of limestone gray 

Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way, 

Yielding along their rugged base 

A flinty footpath's niggard space. 

Where he who winds 'twixt rock and 

wave 
May hear the headlong torrent rave, 
And like a steed in frantic fit, 
That flings the froth from curb and bit, 
May view her chafe her waves to spray 
O'er every rock that bars her way, 150 

Till foam-globes on her eddies ride, 
Thick as the schemes of human pride 
That down life's current drive amain. 
As frail, as frothy, and as vain ! 

VIII 
The cliffs that rear their haughty head 
High o'er the river's darksome bed 
Were now all naked, wild, and gray. 
Now waving all with greenwood spray ; 
Here trees to every crevice clung 
And o'er the dell their branches hung; 160 
And there, all splintered and uneven. 
The shivered rocks ascend to heaven; 
Oft, too, the ivy swathed their breast 
And wreathed its garland round their 

crest, 
Or from the spires bade loosely flare 
Its tendrils in the middle air. 
As pennons wont to wave of old 
O'er the high feast of baron bold. 
When revelled loud the feudal rout 169 

And the arched halls returned their shout. 
Such and more wild is Greta's roar, 
And such the echoes from her shore. 
And so the ivied banners gleam. 
Waved wildly o'er the brawling stream. 

IX 

Now from the stream the rocks recede, 
But leave between no sunny mead. 
No, nor the spot of pebbly sand 
Oft found by such a mountain strand. 



Forming such warm and dry retreat 
As fancy deems the lonely seat 180 

Where hermit, wandering from his cell, 
His rosary might love to tell. 
But here 'twixt rock and river grew 
A dismal grove of sable yew. 
With whose sad tints were mingled seen 
The blighted fir's sepulchral green. 
Seemed that the trees their shadows cast 
The earth that nourished them to blast; 
For never knew that swarthy grove 
The verdant hue that fairies love, 190 

Nor wilding green nor woodland flower 
Arose within its baleful bower: 
The dank and sable earth receives 
Its only carpet from the leaves 
That, from the withering branches cast, 
Bestrewed the ground with every blast. 
Though now the sun was o'er the hill, 
In this dark spot 't was twilight still, 
Save that on Greta's farther side 
Some straggling beams through copse wood 
glide ; 200 

And wild and savage contrast made 
That dingle's deep and funeral shade 
With the bright tints of early day. 
Which, glimmering through the ivy spray. 
On the opposing summit lay. 



The lated peasant shunned the dell; 

For Superstition wont to tell 

Of many a grisly sound and sight. 

Scaring its path at dead of nig-ht. 209 

When Christmas logs blaze high and wide 

Such wonders speed the festal tide, 

While Curiosity and Fear, 

Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching near. 

Till childhood's cheek no longer glows, 

And village maidens lose the rose. 

The thrilling interest rises higher, 

The circle closes nigh and nigher. 

And shuddering glance is cast behind. 

As louder moans the wintry wind. 

Believe that fitting scene was laid 22c 

For such wild tales in Mortham glade; 

For who had seen on Greta's side 

By that dim light fierce Bertram stride, 

In such a spot, at such an hour, — 

If touched by Superstition's power, 

Might well have deemed that Hell had 

given 
A murderer's ghost to upper lioaven, 
While Wilfrid's form had seemed to glide 
Like his pale victim by his side. 



242 



ROKEBY 



XI 



Nor think to village swains alone 230 

Are these unearthly terrors known, 
For not to rank nor sex confined 
Is this vain ague of the mind; 
Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard, 
'Gainst faith and love and pity barred. 
Have quaked, like aspen leaves in May, 
Beneath its universal sway. 
Bertram had listed many a tale 
Of wonder in his native dale. 
That in his secret soul retained 240 

The credence they in childhood gained : 
Nor less his wild adventurous youth 
Believed in every legend's truth ; 
Learned when beneath the tropic gale 
Full swelled the vessel's steady sail. 
And the broad Indian moon her light 
Poured on the watch of middle night. 
When seamen love to hear and tell 
Of portent, prodigy, and spell: 249 

What gales are sold on Lapland's shore, 
How whistle rash bids tempests roar. 
Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite, 
Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light; 
Or of that Phantom Ship whose form 
Shoots like a meteor through the storm 
When the dark scud comes driving hard. 
And lowered is every top-sail yard. 
And canvas wove in earthly looms 
No more to brave the storm presumes ! 
Then mid the war of sea and sky, 260 

Top and top-gallant hoisted high. 
Full spread and crowded every sail, 
The Demon Frigate braves the gale. 
And well the doomed spectators know 
The harbinger of wreck and woe. 

XII 

Then, too, were told in stifled tone 
Marvels and omens all their own; 
How, by some desert isle or key. 
Where Spaniards wrought their cruelty, 
Or where the savage pirate's mood 270 

Repaid it home in deeds of blood, 
Strange nightly sounds of woe and fear 
Appalled the listening buccaneer. 
Whose light-armed shallop anchored lay 
In ambush by the lonely bay. 
The groan of grief, the shriek of paiu. 
Ring from the moonlight groves of cane; 
The fierce adventurer's heart they scare. 
Who wearies memory for a prayer. 
Curses the roadstead, and with gale 280 
Of early morning lifts the sail, 



To give, in thirst of blood and prey, 
A legend for another bay. 

XIII 

Thus, as a man, a youth, a child. 
Trained in the mystic and the wild, 
With this on Bertram's soul at times 
Rushed a dark feeling of his crimes; 
Such to his troubled soul their form 
As the pale Death-ship to the storm. 
And such their omen dim and dread 290 
As shrieks and voices of the dead. 
That pang, whose transitory force 
Hovered 'twixt horror and remorse — 
That pang, perchance, his bosom pressed 
As Wilfrid sudden he addressed: 

* Wilfrid, this glen is never trod 
Until the sun rides high abroad, 
Yet twice have I beheld to-day 

A form that seemed to dog our way; 
Twice from my glance it seemed to flee 300 
And shroud itself by cliff or tree. 
How think'st thou? — Is our path way- 
laid? ^ 
Or hath thy sire my trust betrayed ? 
If so ' — Ere, starting from his dream 
That turned upon a gentler theme, 
Wilfrid had roused him to reply, 
Bertram sprung forward, shouting high, 

* Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt stand ! ' 
And forth he darted, sword in hand. 

XIV 

As bursts the levin in its wrath, 310 

He shot him down the sounding path; 
Rock, wood, and stream rang wildly out 
To his loud step and savage shout. 
Seems that the object of his race 
Hath scaled the cliffs; his frantic chase 
Sidelong he turns, and now 't is bent 
Right up the rock's tall battlement; 
Straining each sinew to ascend. 
Foot, hand, and knee their aid must lend. 
Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay, 320 

Views from beneath his dreadful way: 
Now to the oak's warped roots he clings, 
Now trusts his weight to ivy strings; 
Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare 
An unsupported leap in air; 
Hid in the shrubby rain-course now. 
You mark him by the crashing bough. 
And by his corselet's sullen clank. 
And by the stones spurned from the bank. 
And by the hawk scared from her nest, 330 
And raven's croaking o'er their guest, 



CANTO SECOND 



243 



Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay 
The tribute of his bold essay. 

XV 
See, he emerges ! — desperate now 
All farther course — • yon beetling brow, 
In craggy nakedness sublime. 
What heart or foot shall dare to climb ? 
It bears no tendril for his clasp, 
Presents no angle to his grasp: 
Sole stay his foot may rest upon 340 

Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone. 
Balanced on such precarious prop. 
He strains his grasp to reach the top. 
Just as the dangerous stretch he makes. 
By heaven, his faithless footstool shakes ! 
Beneath his tottering bulk it bends, 
It sways, it loosens, it descends. 
And downward holds its headlong way. 
Crashing o'er rock and copse wood spray ! 
Loud thunders shake the echoing dell ! 350 
Fell it alone ? — alone it fell. 
Just on the very verge of fate. 
The hardy Bertram's falling weight 
He trusted to his sinewy hands. 
And on the top unharmed, he stands ! 

XVI 

Wilfrid a safer path pursued. 
At intervals where, roughly hewed. 
Rude steps ascending from the dell 
Rendered the cliffs accessible. 
By circuit slow he thus attained 360 

The height that Risingham had gained, 
And when he issued from the wood 
Before the gate of Mortham stood. 
'T was a fair scene ! the sunbeam lay 
On battled tower and portal gray; 
And from the grassy slope he sees 
The Greta flow to meet the Tees 
Where, issuing from her darksome bed. 
She caught the morning's eastern red. 
And through the softening vale below 370 
Rolled her bright waves in rosy glow, 
All blushing to her bridal bed, 
Like some shy maid in convent bred. 
While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay 
Sing forth her nuptial roundelay. 

XVII 

'T was sweetly sung that roundelay, 
That summer morn shone blithe and gay; 
But morning beam and wild-bird's call 
Awaked not Mortham's silent hall. 



No porter by the low-browed gate 380 

Took in the wonted niche his seat; 

To the paved court no peasant drew; 

Waked to their toil no menial crew; 

The maiden's carol was not heard. 

As to her morning task she fared; 

In the void offices around 

Rung not a hoof nor bayed a hound ; 

Nor eager steed with shrilling neigh 

Accused the lagging groom's delay; 

Untrimmed, undressed, neglected now, 390 

Was alloyed walk and orchard bough; 

All spoke the master's absent care, 

All spoke neglect and disrepair. 

South of the gate an arrow flight. 

Two mighty elms their limbs unite, 

As if a canopy to spread 

O'er the lone dwelling of the dead; 

For their huge boughs in arches bent 

Above a massive monument. 

Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise 400 

With many a scutcheon and device : 

There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom, 

Bertram stood pondering by the tomb. 

XVIII 

* It vanished like a flitting ghost ! 
Behind this tomb,' he said, * 't was lost — 
This tomb where oft I deemed lies stored 
Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard. 
'T is true, the aged servants said 
Here his lamented wife is laid; 
But weightier reasons may be guessed 410 
For their lord's strict and stern behest 
That none should on his steps intrude 
Whene'er he sought this solitude. 
An ancient mariner I knew, 
What time I sailed with Morgan's crew, 
Who oft mid our carousals spake 
Of Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake; 
Adventurous hearts ! who bartered, bold. 
Their English steel for Spanish gold. 
Trust not, would his experience say, 420 
Captain or comrade with your prey, 
But seek some charnel, when, at full. 
The moon gilds skeleton and skull: 
There dig and tomb your precious heap. 
And bid the dead your treasure keep; 
Sure stewards they, if fitting spell 
Their service to the task compel. 
Lacks there such charnel ? — kill a slave 
Or prisoner on the treasuro-grave, 
And bid his discontented ghost 430 

Stalk nightly on his lonely post. 



244 



ROKEBY 



Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween, 
Is in my morning vision seen.' 

XIX 

Wilfrid, who scorned the legend wild, 

In mingled mirth and pity smiled, 

Much marvelling that a breast so bold 

In such fond tale belief should hold, 

But yet of Bertram sought to know 

The apparition's form and show. 

The power within the guilty breast, 440 

Oft vanquished, never quite suppressed. 

That unsubdued and lurking lies 

To take the felon by surprise 

And force him, as by magic spell, 

In his despite his guilt to tell — 

That power in Bertram's breast awoke ; 

Scarce conscious he was heard, he spoke; 

* 'T was Mortham's form, from foot to 

head ! 
His morion with the plume of red, 
His shape, his mien — 't was Mortham, 
right ^ 450 

As when I slew him in the fight.' — 
< Thou slay him ? — thou ? ' — With con- 
scious start 
He heard, them manned his haughty 
heart — 

* I slew him ? — I ! — I had forgot 
Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the plot. 
But it is spoken — nor will I 

Deed done or spoken word deny. 

I slew him; I ! for thankless pride; 

'T was by this hand that Mortham died.' 

XX 

Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart, 460 

Averse to every active part. 

But most adverse to martial broil, 

From danger shrunk and turned from 

toil; 
Yet the meek lover of the lyre 
Nursed one brave spark of noble fire; 
Against injustice, fraud, or wrong 
His blood beat high, his hand waxed strong. 
Not his the nerves that could sustain. 
Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain; 469 

But, when that spark blazed forth to flame, 
He rose superior to his frame. 
And now it came, that generous mood; 
And, in full current of his blood, 
On Bertram he laid desperate hand. 
Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand. 

* Should every fiend to whom thou 'rt sold 
Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold. — 



Arouse there, ho ! take spear and sword ! 
Attach the murderer of your lord ! ' 



480 



I 



XXI 

A moment, fixed as by a spell. 

Stood Bertram — it seemed miracle, 

That one so feeble, soft, and tame 

Set grasp on warlike Bisingham. 

But when he felt a feeble stroke 

The fiend within the ruffian woke ! 

To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hand, 

To dash him headlong on the sand, 

Was but one moment's work, — one more 

Had drenched the blade in Wilfrid's gore. 

But in the instant it arose 490 

To end his life, his love, his woes, 

A warlike form that marked the scene 

Presents his rapier sheathed between, 

Parries the fast-descending blow, 

And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe; 

Nor then unscabbarded his brand, 

But, sternly pointing with his hand. 

With monarch's voice forbade the fight. 

And motioned Bertram from his sight. 

' Go, and repent,' he said, ^ while time 500 

Is given thee; add not crime to crime.' 

XXII 

Mute and uncertain and amazed, 

As on a vision Bertram gazed ! 

'T was Mortham's bearing, bold and high, 

His sinewy frame, his falcon eye. 

His look and accent of command. 

The martial gesture of his hand, 

His stately form, spare-built and tall, 

His war-bleached locks — 't was Mortham 

all. 
Through Bertram's dizzy brain career 510 
A thousand thoughts, and all of fear; 
His wavering faith received not quite 
The form he saw as Mortham's sprite. 
But more he feared it if it stood 
His lord in living flesh and blood. 
What spectre can the charnel send. 
So dreadful as an injured friend ? 
Then, too, the habit of command. 
Used by the leader of the band 
When Bisingham for many a day 520 

Had marched and fought beneath his sway, 
Tamed him — and with reverted face 
Backwards he bore his sullen pace, 
Oft stopped, and oft on Mortham stared, 
And dark as rated mastifp glared. 
But when the tramp of steeds was heard 
Plunged in the glen and disappeared; 



CANTO SECOND 



245 



Nor longer there the warrioi' stood, 

Retiring eastward through the wood, 

But first to Wilfrid warning gives, 530 

* Tell thou to none that Mortham lives.' 

XXIII 

Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear, 
Hinting he knew not what of fear. 
When nearer came the coursers' tread, 
And, with his father at their head, 
Of horsemen armed a gallant power 
Reined up their steeds before the tower. 

* Whence these pale looks, my son ? ' he 

said: 

* Where 's Bertram ? Why that naked 

blade ? ' 
Wilfrid ambiguously replied — 540 

For Mortham's charge his honor tied — 

* Bertram is gone — the villain's word 
Avouched him murderer of his lord ! 
Even now we fought — but when your 

tread 
Announced you nigh, the felon fled.' 
In Wycliife's conscious eye appear 
A guilty hope, a guilty fear; 
On his pale brow the dew-drop broke. 
And his lip quivered as he spoke: 

XXIV 

* A murderer ! — Philip Mortham died 550 
Amid the battle's wildest tide. 

Wilfrid, or Bertram raves or you ! 

Yet, grant such strange confession true. 

Pursuit were vain — let him fly far — 

Justice must sleep in civil war.' 

A gallant youth rode near his side, 

Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried; 

That morn an embassy of weight 

He brought to Barnard's castle gate. 

And followed now in Wycliffe's train 560 

An answer for his lord to gain. 

His steed, whose arched and sable neck 

An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck, 

Chafed not against the curb more high 

Than he at Oswald's cold reply; 

He bit his lip, implored his saint — 

His the old faith — then burst restraint: 

XXV 

« Yes ! I beheld his bloody fall 

By that base traitor's dastard ball. 

Just when I thought to measure sword, 570 

Presumptuous hope 1 with Mortham's lord. 

And shall the murderer 'scape who slew 



His leader, generous, brave, and true ? 

Escape, while on the dew you trace 

The marks of his gigantic pace ? 

No ! ere the sun that dew shall dry, 

False Risingham shall yield or die. — 

Ring out the castle larum bell ! 

Arouse the peasants with the knell ! 579 

Meantime disperse — ride, gallants, ride ! 

Beset the wood on every side. 

But if among you one there be 

That honors Mortham's memory, 

Let him dismount and follow me ! 

Else on your crests sit fear and shame, 

And foul suspicion dog your name ! ' 

XXVI 

Instant to earth young Redmond sprung; 

Instant on earth the harness rung 

Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band, 

Who waited not their lord's command. 590 

Redmond his spurs from buskins drew, 

His mantle from his shoulders threw, 

His pistols in his belt he placed. 

The green - wood gained, the footsteps 

traced. 
Shouted like huntsman to his hounds, 
' To cover, hark ! ' — and in he bounds. 
Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious cry, 
* Suspicion ! yes — pursue him — fly — 
But venture not in useless strife 
On ruffian desperate of his life; 600 

Whoever finds him shoot him dead ! 
Five hundred nobles for his head ! * 

XXVII 

The horsemen galloped to make good 
Each path that issued from the wood. 
Loud from the thickets rung the shout 
Of Redmond and his eager rout; 
With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire, 
And envying Redmond's martial fire, 
And emulous of fame. — But where 
Is Oswald, noble Mortham's lieir ? 610 

He, bound by honor, law, and faith. 
Avenger of his kinsman's death ? — 
Leaning against tlie elmin tree, 
With drooping head and slackened knee, 
And clenched teeth, and close - clasped 

hands, 
In agony of soul he stands I 
His downcast eye on earth is bent, 
His soul to every sound is lent; 
For in each shout that cleaves the air 
May ring disQOvery and despair. 620 



246 



ROKEBY 



XXVIII 

What Vailed it him that brightly played 

The morniDg sun on Mortham's glade ? 

All seems in giddy round to ride, 

Like objects on a stormy tide 

Seen eddying by the moonlight dim, 

Imperfectly to sink and swim. 

What 'vailed it that the fair domain. 

Its battled mansion, hill, and plain, 

On which the sun so brightly shone, 

En^ded so long, was now his own ? 630 

The lowest dungeon, in that hour. 

Of Brackenbury's dismal tower. 

Had been his choice, could such a doom 

Have opened Mortham's bloody tomb ! 

Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear 

To each surmise of hope or fear, 

Murmured among the rustics round, 

Who gathered at the larum sound, 

He dare not turn his head away, 

Even to look up to heaven to pray, 640 

Or call on hell in bitter mood 

For cue sharp death-shot from the wood ! 

XXIX 

At length o'erpast that dreadful space. 
Back straggling came the scattered chase; 
Jaded and weary, horse and man, 
Returned the troopers one by one. 
Wilfrid the last arrived to say 
All trace was lost of Bertram's way, 
Though Redmond still up Brignall wood 
The hopeless quest in vain pursued. 650 
O, fatal doom of human race ! 
What tyrant passions passions chase ! 
Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone. 
Avarice and pride resume their throne; 
The pang of instant terror by, 
They dictate thus their slave's reply: 

XXX 

* Ay — let him range like hasty hound ! 
And if the grim wolf's lair be found. 
Small is my care how goes the game 
With Redmond or with Risingham. — 660 
Nay, answer not, thou simple boy ! 
Thy fair Matilda, all so coy 
To thee, is of another mood 
To that bold youth of Erin's blood. 
Thy ditties will she freely praise. 
And pay thy pains with courtly phrase; 
In a rough path will oft command — 
Accept at least — thy friendly hand ; 
His she avoids, or, urged and prayed. 
Unwilling takes bjs proffered aid, 670 



I 



While conscious passion plainly speaks 

In downcast look and blushing cheeks. 

Whene'er he sings will she glide nigh, 

And all her soul is in her eye; 

Yet doubts she still to tender free 

The wonted words of courtesy. 

These are strong signs ! — yet wherefore 

sigh. 
And wipe, effeminate, thine eye ? ^1 

Thine shall she be, if thou attend "B' 

The counsels of thy sire and friend. 680 

XXXI 

* Scarce wert thou gone, when peep of 

light 
Brought genuine news of Marston's fight. 
Brave Cromwell turned the doubtful tide. 
And conquest blessed the rightful side; 
Three thousand cavaliers lie dead, 
Rupert and that bold Marquis fled; 
Nobles and knights, so proud of late, :|S 
Must fine for freedom and estate. " 

Of these committed to my charge 
Is Rokeby, prisoner at large; 690 ^ 

Redmond his page arrived to say 
He reaches Barnard's towers to-day. 
Right heavy shall his ransom be 
Unless that maid compound with thee ! 
Go to her now — be bold of cheer 
While her soul floats 'twixt hope and fear; 
It is the very change of tide, 
When best the female heart is tried — 
Pride, prejudice, and modesty, 
Are in the current swept to sea, 700 

And the bold swain who plies his oar 
May lightly row his bark to shore.' 



CANTO THIRD 



The hunting tribes of air and earth 
Respect the brethren of their birth; 
Nature, who loves the claim of kind. 
Less cruel chase to each assigned. 
The falcon, poised on soaring wing. 
Watches the wild-duck by the spring; 
The slow-hound wakes the fox's lair; 
The greyhound presses on the hare; 
The eagle pounces on the lamb ; 
The wolf devours the fleecy dam : 
Even tiger fell and sullen bear 
Their likeness and their lineage spare; 
Man only mars kind Nature's plan, 
And turns the fierce pursuit on man. 



CANTO THIRD 



247 



Plying war's desultory trade, 
Incursion, flight, and ambuscade. 
Since Nimrod, Gush's mighty son, 
At first the bloody game begun. 



The Indian, prowling for his prey. 

Who hears the settlers track his way, 20 

And knows in distant forest far 

Camp his red brethren of the war — 

He, when each double and disguise 

To baffle the pursuit he tries. 

Low crouching now his head to hide 

Where swampy streams through rushes 

glide. 
Now covering with the withered leaves 
The foot-prints that the dew receives — 
He, skilled in every sylvan guile. 
Knows not, nor tries, such various wile 30 
As Risingham when on the wind 
Arose the loud pursuit behind. 
In Redesdale his youth had heard 
Each art her wily dalesman dared, 
When Rooken-edge and Redswair high 
To bugle rung and blood-hound's cry, 
Announcing Jedwood-axe and spear. 
And Lid'sdale riders in the rear; 
And well his venturous life had proved 
The lessons that his childhood loved. 40 

III 

Oft had he shown in climes afar 

Each attribute of roving war; 

The sharpened ear, the piercing eye, 

The quick resolve in danger nigh; 

The speed that in the flight or chase 

Outstripped the Charib's rapid race; 

The steady brain, the sinewy limb. 

To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim; 

The iron frame, inured to bear 

Each dire inclemency of air, 50 

Nor less confirmed to undergo 

Fatigue's faint chill and famine's throe. 

These arts he proved, his life to save, 

In peril oft by land and wave, 

On Arawaca's desert shore. 

Or where La Plata's billows roar, 

When oft the sons of vengeful Spain 

Tracked the marauder's steps in vain. 

These arts, in Indian warfare tried, 

Must save him now by Greta's side. 60 

IV 

T was then, in hour of utmost need, 
He proved his courage, art, and speed. 



Now slow he stalked with stealthy pace, 

Now started forth in rapid race, 

Oft doubling back in mazy train 

To blind the trace the dews retain; 

Now clomb the rocks projecting high 

To baffle the pursuer's eye; 

Now sought the stream, whose brawling 

sound 
The echo of his footsteps drowned. 70 

But if the forest verge he nears. 
There trample steeds, and glimmer spears ; 
If deeper down the copse he drew, 
He heard the rangers' loud halloo. 
Beating each cover while they came, 
As if to start the sylvan game. 
'T was then — like tiger close beset 
At every pass with toil and net, 
'Countered where'er he turns his glare 
By clashing arms and torches' flare, 80 

Who meditates with furious bound 
To burst on hunter, horse and hound — 
'T was then that Bertram's soul arose, 
Prompting to rush upon his foes: 
But as that crouching tiger, cowed 
By brandished steel and shouting crowd, 
Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud, 
Bertram suspends his purpose stern. 
And crouches in the brake and fern, 
Hiding his face lest foemen spy 90 

The sparkle of his swarthy eye. 



Then Bertram might the bearing trace 
Of the bold youth who led the chase; 
Who paused to list for every sound. 
Climbed every height to look around. 
Then rushing on with naked sword. 
Each dingle's bosky depths explored. 
'T was Redmond — by the azure eye ; 
'T was Redmond — by the locks that fly 
Disordered from his glowing cheek; 100 
Mien, face, and form young Redmond 

speak. 
A form more active, light, and strong. 
Ne'er shot the ranks of war along; 
The modest yet the manly mien 
Might grace the court of maiden queen; 
A face more fair you well might find, 
For Redmond's knew the sun and wind. 
Nor boasted, from their tinge when free, 
The charm of regularity ; 
But every feature had the power no 

To aid the expression of the hour; 
Whether gay wit and humor sly 
Danced laughing in his light-blue eye, 



248 



ROKEBY 



Or bended brow and glance of fire 
And kindling cheek spoke Erin's ire, 
Or soft and saddened glances show 
Her ready sympathy with woe; 
Or in that wayward mood of mind 
When various feelings are combined, 
When joy and sorrow mingle near, 120 

And hope's bright wings are checked by 

fear, 
And rising doubts keep transport down. 
And anger lends a short-lived frown; 
In that strange mood which maids approve 
Even when they dare not call it love — 
With every change his features played. 
As aspens show the light and shade. 

VI 

Well Risingham young Redmond knew. 
And much he marvelled that the crew 
Roused to revenge bold Mortham dead 130 
Were by that Mortham's foeman led; 
For never felt his soul the woe 
That wails a generous foeman low. 
Far less that sense of justice strong 
That wreaks a generous foeman's wrong. 
But small his leisure now to pause ; 
Redmond is first, whate'er the cause : 
And twice that Redmond came so near 
Where Bertram couched like hunted deer, 
The very boughs his steps displace 140 

Rustled against the ruffian's face. 
Who desperate twice prepared to start, 
And plunge his dagger in his heart ! 
But Redmond turned a different way, 
And the bent boughs resumed their sway. 
And Bertram held it wise, unseen. 
Deeper to plunge in coppice green. 
Thus, circled in his coil, the snake. 
When roving hunters beat the brake. 
Watches with red and glistening eye, 150 
Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh. 
With forked tongue and venomed fang 
Instant to dart the deadly pang; 
But if the intruders turn aside. 
Away his coils unfolded glide. 
And through the deep savannah wind. 
Some undisturbed retreat to find. 

VIT 

But Bertram, as he backward drew, 
And heard the loud pursuit renew. 
And Redmond's hollo on the wind, 160 

Oft muttered in his savage mind — 
* Redmond O'Neale ! were thou and I 
Alone this day's event to try. 



With not a second here to see 
But the gray cliff and oaken tree. 
That voice of thine that shouts so loud 
Should ne'er repeat its summons proud ! 
No ! nor e'er try its melting power 
Again in maiden's summer bower.' 
Eluded, now behind him die 170 

Faint and more faint each hostile cry; 
He stands in Scargill wood alone. 
Nor hears he now a harsher tone 
Than the hoarse cushat's plaintive cry, 
Or Greta's sound that murmurs by; 
And on the dale, so lone and wild, 
The summer sun in quiet smiled. 

VIII 
He listened long with anxious heart, 
Ear bent to hear and foot to start. 
And, while his stretched attention glows, 180 
Refused his weary frame repose. 
'T was silence all — he laid him down, 
Where purple heath profusely strown, 
And throatwort with its azure bell. 
And moss and thyme his cushion swell. 
There, spent with toil, he listless eyed 
The course of Greta's playful tide; 
Beneath her banks now eddying dun. 
Now brightly gleaming to the sun. 
As, dancing over rock and stone, 190 

In yellow light her currents shone, 
Matching in hue the favorite gem 
Of Albin's mountain-diadem. 
Then, tired to watch the currents play. 
He turned his weary eyes away 
To where the bank opposing showed 
Its huge, square cliffs through shaggy 

wood. 
One, prominent above the rest. 
Reared to the sun its pale gray breast; 
Around its broken summit grew 200 

The hazel rude and sable yew; 
A thousand varied lichens dyed 
Its waste and weather-beaten side. 
And round its rugged basis lay. 
By time or thunder rent away, 
Fragments that from its frontlet torn 
Were mantled now by verdant thorn. 
Such was the scene's wild majesty 
That filled stern Bertram's gazing eye. 



In sullen mood he lay reclined, 
Revolving in his stormy mind 
The felon deed, the fruitless guilt, 
His patron's blood by treason spilt; 



CANTO THIRD 



249 



A crime, it seemed, so dire and dread 
That it had power to wake the dead. 
Then, pondering on his life betrayed 
By Oswald's art to Redmond's blade, 
In treacherous purpose to withhold. 
So seemed it, Mortham's promised gold, 
A deep and full revenge he vowed 22c 

On Redmond, forward, fierce, and proud; 
Revenge on Wilfrid — on his sire 
Redoubled vengeance, swift and dire ! — 
If, in such mood — as legends say, 
And well believed that simple day — 
The Enemy of Man has power 
To profit by the evil hour, 
Here stood a wretch prepared to change 
His soul's redemption for revenge ! 
But though his vows with such a fire 230 
Of earnest and intense desire 
For vengeance dark and fell were made 
As well might reach hell's lowest shade. 
No deeper clouds the grove embrowned. 
No nether thunders shook the ground ; 
The demon knew his vassal's heart. 
And spared temptation's needless art. 



Oft, mingled with the direful theme, 

Came Mortham's form — was it a dream ? 

Or had he seen in vision true 240 

That very Mortham whom he slew ? 

Or had in living flesh appeared 

The only man on earth he feared ? — 

To try the mystic cause intent. 

His eyes that on the cliff were bent 

'Countered at once a dazzling glance, 

Like sunbeam flashed from sword or lance. 

At once he started as for fight, 

But not a foeman was in sight; 

He heard the cushat's murmur hoarse, 250 

He heard the river's sounding course; 

The solitary woodlands lay. 

As slumbering in the summer ray. 

He gazed, like lion roused, around. 

Then sunk again upon the ground. 

'T was but, he thought, some fitful beam, 

Glanced sudden from the sparkling stream ; 

Then plunged him in liis gloomy train 

Of ill-connected thoughts again. 

Until a voice behind him cried, 260 

* Bertram ! well met on Greta side.* 

XI 
Instant his sword was in his hand, 
As instant sunk the ready brand ; 



Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood 
To him that issued from the wood : 

* Guy Denzil ! — is it thou ? ' he said; 

' Do we two meet in Scargill shade ! — 
Stand back a space ! — thy purpose show, 
Whether thou com est as friend or foe. 
Report hath said, that Denzil's name 270 
From Rokeby's band was razed with 
shame ' — 

* A shame I owe that hot O'Neale, 
Who told his knight in peevish zeal 
Of my marauding on the clowns 
Of Calverley and Bradford downs. 
I reck not. In a war to strive. 
Where save the leaders none can thrive, 
Suits ill my mood; and better game 
Awaits us both, if thou 'rt the same 
Unscrupulous, bold Risingham 280 
Who watched with me in midnight dark 
To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park. 
How think'st thou ? ' — * Speak thy pur- 
pose out; 

I love not mystery or doubt.' — 

XII 

* Then list. — Not far there lurk a crew 
Of trusty comrades stanch and true, 
Gleaned from both factions — Roundheads^ 

freed 
From cant of sermon and of creed. 
And Cavaliers, whose souls like mine 
Spurn at the bonds of discipline. 29a 

Wiser, we judge, by dale and wold 
A warfare of our own to hold 
Than breathe our last on battle-down 
For cloak or surplice, mace or crown. 
Our schemes are laid, our purpose set, 
A chief and leader lack we yet. 
Thou art a wanderer, it is said. 
For Mortham's death thy steps waylaid, 
Thy head at price — so say our spies. 
Who ranged the valley in disguise. 30c 

Join then with us: though wild debate 
And wrangling rend our infant state. 
Each, to an equal loath to bow. 
Will yield to chief renowned as thou.' — 

XIII 

' Even now,' thought Bertram, passion- 
stirred, 

* I called on hell, and hell has hoard ! 
What lack I, vengeance to command, 
But of stanch comrades such a band ? 
This Denzil, vowed to every evil, 

Might read a lesson to the devil. 310 



25° 



ROKEBY 



Well, be it so ! each knave and fool 
Shall serve as my revenge's tool.' — 
Aloud, ' I take thy proffer, Guy, 
But tell me where thy comrades lie.' 

* Xot far from hence,* Guy Denzil said; 

* Descend and cross the river's bed 
Where rises yonder cliff so gray.' 

* Do thou,' said Bertram, ' lead the way.' 
Then muttered, ' It is best make sure; 
Guy Denzil's faith was never pure.' 320 
He followed down the steep descent, 
Then through the Greta's streams they 

went; 
And when they reached the farther shore 
They stood the lonely cliff' before. 

XIV 

With wonder Bertram heard within 

The flinty rock a murmured din; 

But when Guy pulled the wilding spray 

And brambles from its base away. 

He saw appearing to the air 

A little entrance low and square, 330 

Like opening cell of hermit lone. 

Dark winding through the liviug stone. 

Here entered Denzil, Bertram here; 

And loud and louder on their ear, 

As from the bowels of the earth, 

Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth. 

Of old the cavern strait and rude 

In slaty rock the peasant hewed; 

And Brignall's woods and Scargill's wave 

E'en now o'er many a sister cave, 340 

Where, far within the darksome rift, 

The wedge and lever ply their thrift. 

But war had silenced rural trade, 

And the deserted mine was made 

The banquet-hall and fortress too 

Of Denzil and his desperate crew. 

There Guilt his anxious revel kept, 

There on his sordid pallet slept 

Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drained 

Still in his slumbering grasp retained; 350 

Regret was there, his eye still cast 

With vain repining on the past; 

Among the feasters waited near 

Sorrow and unrepentant Eear, 

And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven, 

With his own crimes reproaching Heaven; 

While Bertram showed amid the crew 

The Master-Fiend that Milton drew. 



XV 



Hark ! the loud revel wakes again 
To greet the leader of the train. 



360 



Behold the group by the pale lamp 

That struggles with the earthy damp. 

By what strange features Vice hath known 

To single out and mark her own ! 

Yet some there are whose brows retain 

Less deeply stamped her brand and stain. 

See yon pale stripling ! when a boy, 

A mother's pride, a father's joy ! 

Xow, 'gainst the vault's rude walls reclined, 

An early image fills his mind: 37c 

The cottage once his sire's he sees, ^m 

Embowered upon the banks of Tees; fli 

He views sweet Winston's woodland scene, 

And shares the dance on Gainford-green. 

A tear is springing — but the zest 

Of some wild tale or brutal jest 

Hath to loud laughter stirred the rest. 

On him they call, the aptest mate 

For jovial song and merry feat: 

Fast flies his dream — with dauntless 

air, ^ ^ 380 

As one victorious o'er despair, 
He bids the ruddy cup go round 
Till sense and sorrow both are drowned; 
And soon in merry wassail he, 
The life of ail their revelry, 
Peals his loud song ! — The muse has 1 

found 
Her blossoms on the wildest ground, 
Mid noxious weeds at random strewed, 
Themselves all profitless and rude. — 
With desperate merriment he sung, 390 
The cavern to the chorus rung. 
Yet mingled with his reckless glee 
Remorse's bitter agony. 

XVI 

SONG 

0, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton-hall, 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrUj, — 



400 



CHORUS 

* O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green; 
I 'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen.' 
*If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. 

To leave both tower and town, 



CANTO THIRD 



251 



Thou first must guess what life lead we 
That dwell by dale and down ? 

And if thou canst that riddle read, 410 

As read full well you may, 

Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, 
As blithe as Queen of May.' 

CHORUS 

Yet sung she, * Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are green; 
I 'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen. 

XVII 

^I read you, by your bugle horn. 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn 420 

To keep the king's greenwood.' 

* A ranger, lady, winds his horn. 

And 'tis at peep of light; 
His blast is heard at merry morn, 
And mine at dead of night.' 

CHORUS 

Yet sung she, * Brignall banks are fair. 

And Greta woods are gay; 
I would I were with Edmund there, 

To reign his Queen of May ! 

* With burnished brand and musketoon 430 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold dragoon. 
That lists the tuck of drum.' 

* I list no more the tuck of drum. 

No more the trumpet hear; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum. 
My comrades take the spear. 

CHORUS 

* And O, though Brignall banks be fair, 

Aud Greta woods be gay. 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare 440 

Would reign my Queen of May ! 

XVIII 

* Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I '11 die ; 
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 

Were better mate than I ! 
And when I 'm with my comrades met 

Beneath the greenwood bough, 
What once we were we all forget. 

Nor think what we are now. 



* Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 450 

And Greta woods are green. 
And you may gather garlands there 
Would grace a summer queen.' 

When Edmund ceased his simple song, 
Was silence on the sullen throng. 
Till waked some ruder mate their glee 
With note of coarser minstrelsy. 
But far apart in dark divan, 
Denzil and Bertram many a plan 
Of import foul and fierce designed, 460 

While still on Bertram's grasping mind 
The wealth of murdered Mortham hung; ' 
Though half he feared his daring tongue, 
When it should give his wishes birth. 
Might raise a spectre from the earth ! 

XIX 

At length his wondrous tale he told; 
When scornful smiled his comrade bold, 
For, trained in license of a court. 
Religion's self was Denzil's sport; 
Then judge in what contempt he held 470 
The visionary tales of eld ! 
His awe for Bertram scarce repressed 
The unbeliever's sneering jest, 

* 'T were hard,' he said, * for sage or seer 
To spell the subject of your fear; 

Nor do I boast the art renowned 

Vision and omen to expound. 

Yet, faith if I must needs afford 

To spectre watching treasured hoard. 

As ban-dog keeps his master's roof, 480 

Bidding the plunderer stand aloof. 

This doubt remains — thy goblin gaunt 

Hath chosen ill his ghostly haunt; 

For why his guard on Mortham hold, 

Wlien Rokeby castle hath the gold 

Thy patron won on Indian soil 

By stealth, by piracy and spoil ? ' — 

XX 

At this he paused — for angry shame 
Lowered on the brow of Risingham. 489 
He blushed to think, that lie should seem 
Asserter of an airy dream, 
And gave his wrath another theme. 

* Denzil,' he says, * thougli lowly laid, 
Wrong not the memory of the dead; 
For while he lived at Mortham's look 
Thy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook ! 
And when lie taxed thy breach of word 
To yon fair rose of Allenford, 



252 



ROKEBY 



I saw thee crouch like chastened hound 
^Yhose back the huntsman's lash hath 
found. 500 

Nor dare to call his foreign wealth 
The spoil of piracy or stealth; 
He won it bravely with his brand 
When Spain waged warfare with our land. 
Mark, too — I brook no idle jeer, 
Nor couple Bertram's name with fear; 
Mine is but half the demon's lot, 
For I belieye, but tremble not. 
Enough of this. Say, why this hoard 
Thou deem'st at Rokeby castle stored; 510 
Or think'st that Mortham would bestow 
His treasure with his faction's foe ? ' 

XXI 

Soon quenched was Denzil's ill - timed 

mirth; 
Rather he would haye seen the earth 
Giye to ten thousand spectres birth 
Than venture to awake to flame 
The deadly wrath of Risingham. 
Submiss he answered, ^Mortham's mind. 
Thou know'st, to joy was ill inclined. 
In youth, 't is said, a gallant free, 52c 

A lusty reveller was he ; 
But since returned from over sea, 
A sullen and a silent mood 
Hath numbed the current of his blood. 
Hence he refused each kindly call 
To Bokeby's hospitable hall, 
And our stout knight, at dawn or morn 
Who loved to hear the bugle-horn, 
Nor less, when eve his oaks embrowned, 
To see the ruddy cup go round, 530 

Took umbrage that a friend so near 
Refused to share his chase and cheer; 
Thus did the kindred barons jar 
Ere they divided in the war. 
Yet, trust me, friend, Matilda fair 
Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir.' 

XXII 

* Destined to her ! to yon slight maid ! 

The prize my life had wellnigh paid 
When 'gainst Laroche by Cayo's wave 
I fought my patron's wealth to save ! — 540 
Denzil, I knew him long, yet ne'er 
Knew him that joyous cavalier 
Whom youthful friends and early fame 
Called soul of gallantry and game. 
A moody man he sought our crew, 
Desperate and dark, whom no one knew, 



I And rose, as men with us must rise, 

i By scorning life and all its ties. 
I On each adventure rash he roved, 
I As danger for itself he loved; 5; 

I On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine 
j Could ere one wrinkled knot untwine; 
i 111 was the omen if he smiled, 
For 't was in peril stern and wild; 
But when he laughed each luckless mate 
Might hold our fortune desperate. 
Foremost he fought in every broil. 
Then scornful turned him from the spoil, 
Nay, often strove to bar the way 
Between his comrades and their prey; 560 
Preaching even then to such as we, 
Hot with our dear-bought victory, 
Of mercy and humanity. 

XXIII 

* I loved him well — his fearless part, 
His gallant leading, won my heart. 
And after each victorious fight, 

'T was I that wrangled for his right, 

Redeemed his portion of the prey 

That greedier mates had torn away, 

In field and storm thrice saved his life, 570 

And once amid our comrades' strife. — 

Yes, I have loved thee ! Well hath proved 

My toil, my danger, how I loved ! 

Yet will I mourn no more thy fate, 

Ingrate in life, in death iugrate. 

Rise if thou canst ! ' he looked around 

And sternly stamped upon the ground — 

* Rise, with thy bearing proud and high, 
Even as this morn it met mine eye, 

And give me, if thou darest, the lie ! ' 580 
He paused — then, calm and passion-freed. 
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed. 

XXIV 

* Bertram, to thee I need not tell. 
What thou hast cause to wot so well. 
How superstition's nets were twined 
Around the Lord of Mortham's mind; 
But since he drove thee from his tower, 
A maid he found in Greta's bower 
Whose speech, like David's harp, had sway 
To charm his evil fiend away. 590 
I know not if her features moved 
Remembrance of the wife he loved. 

But he would gaze upon her eye, 
Till his mood softened to a sigh. 
He, whom no living mortal sought 
To question of his secret thought, 



CANTO THIRD 



253 



Now every thought and care confessed 
To his fair niece's faithful breast; 
Nor was there aught of rich and rare, 
In earth, in ocean, or in air, 600 

But it must deck Matilda's hair. 
Her love still bound him unto life ; 
But then awoke the civil strife. 
And menials bore by his commands 
Three coffers with their iron bands 
From Mortham's vault at midnight deep 
To her lone bower in Kokeby-Keep, 
Ponderous with gold and plate of pride, 
His gift, if he in battle died.' 

XXV 

* Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train 6io 
These iron-banded chests to gain, 

Else wherefore should he hover here 
Where many a peril waits him near 
For all his feats of war and peace. 
For plundered boors, and harts of greese ? 
Since through the hamlets as he fared 
What hearth has Guy's marauding spared, 
Or where the chase that hath not rung 
With Denzil's bow at midnight strung ? ' 

* I hold my wont — my rangers go, 620 
Even now to track a milk-white doe. 

By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair. 

In Greta wood she harbors fair. 

And when my huntsman marks her way, 

What think'st thou, Bertram, of the prey ? 

Were Rokeby's daughter in our power. 

We rate her ransom at her dower.' 

XXVI 

* 'T is well ! — there 's vengeance in the 

thought, 
Matilda is by Wilfrid sought; 
And hot-brained Redmond too, 't is said, 630 
Pays lover's homage to the maid. 
Bertram she scorned — if met by chance 
She turned from me her shuddering glance, 
Like a nice dame that will not brook 
On what she hates and loathes to look; 
She told to Mortham she could ne'er 
Behold me without secret fear, 
Foreboding evil: — she may rue 
To find her prophecy fall true ! — 
The war has weeded Rokeby's train, 640 
Few followers in his halls remain; 
If thy scheme miss, then, brief and bold, 
We are enow to storm the hold, 
Bear off the plunder and the dame, 
And leave the castle all in ilame.' 



XXVII 

* Still art thou Valor's venturous son ! 
Yet ponder first the risk to run: 

The menials of the castle, true 

And stubborn to their charge, though 

few — 
The wall to scale — the moat to cross — 650 
The wicket-grate — the inner fosse ' — 

* Fool ! if we blench for toys like these, 
On what fair guerdon can we seize ? 
Our hardiest venture, to explore 

Some wretched peasant's fenceless door, 
And the best prize we bear away, 
The earnings of his sordid day.' 

* A while thy hasty taunt forbear: 
In sight of road more sure and fair 

Thou wouldst not choose, in blindfold 
wrath 660 

Or wantonness a desperate path ? 
List, then ; — for vantage or assault. 
From gilded vane to dungeon vault. 
Each pass of Rokeby-house I know: 
There is one postern dark and low 
That issues at a secret spot, 
By most neglected or forgot. 
Now, could a spial of our train 
On fair pretext admittance gain. 
That sally-port might be unbarred; 670 

Then, vain were battlement and ward ! 

XXVIII 

*Now speak'st thou well: to me the same 
If force or art shall urge the game; 
Indifferent if like fox I wind, 
Or spring like tiger on the hind. — 
But, hark ! our merry men so gay 
Troll forth another roundelay.' 

SONG 

* A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 68q 

And press the rue for wine ! 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 

No more of me you knew, 

My love ! 
No more of me you knew. 



* This morn is merry June, I trow, 
The rose is budding fain; 
But she shall bloom in winter snow 
Ere we two meet again.' 



690 



254 



ROKEBY 



He turned his charger as he spake 

Upon the river shore, 
He gave his bridle-reins a shake, 

Said, * Adieu for evermore, 

My love ! 
And adieu for evermore.' 

XXIX 

* What youth is this your band among 
The best for minstrelsy and song ? 

In his wild notes seem aptly met 70c 

A strain of pleasure and regret.' — 

* Edmund of Winston is his name ; 
The hamlet sounded with the fame 
Of early hopes his childhood gave, — 
Now centred all in Brignall cave ! 

I watch him well — his wayward course 

Shows oft a tincture of remorse. 

Some early love-shaft grazed his heart. 

And oft the scar will ache and smart. 

Yet is he useful; — of the rest 71c 

By fits the darling and the jest. 

His harp, his story, and his lay, 

Oft aid the idle hours away: 

When unemployed, each fiery mate 

Is ripe for mutinous debate. 

He tuned his strings e'en now — again 

He wakes them with a blither strain.* 



XXX 

SONG 

ALLEN-A-DALE 

Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spin- 
ning, 720 
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the 

winning. 
Come, read me my riddle ! come, hearken 

my tale ! 
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a- 
Dale. 

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in 

pride. 
And he views his domains upon Arkindale 

side. 
The mere for his net and the land for his 

game, 
The chase for the wild and the park for 

the tame; 



Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the 
vale 

Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a- 
Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 730 
Though his spur be as sharp and his blade 

be as bright; 
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his 

word; 
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will 

vail. 
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets 

Allen-a-Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; 

The mother, she asked of his household 
and home: 

' Though the castle of Richmond stand fair 
on the hill. 

My hall,' quoth bold Allen, * shows gallanter 
still; 

'T is the blue vault of heaven, with its cres- 
cent so pale 740 

And with all its bright spangles ! ' said 
Allen-a-Dale. 

The father was steel and the mother was 
stone ; 

They lifted the latch and they bade him be 
gone; 

But loud on the morrow their wail and their 
cry: 

He had laughed on the lass with his bonny 
black eye. 

And she fled to the forest to hear a love- 
tale, 

And the youth it was told by was Allen- a- 
dale! 

XXXI 

* Thou see'st that, whether sad or gay, 
Love mingles ever in his lay. 

But when his boyish wayward fit 750 

Is o'er, he hath address and wit; 

O, 't is a brain of fire, can ape 

Each dialect, each various shape ! ' — 

* Nay then, to aid thy project, Guy — 
Soft ! who comes here ? ' — * My trusty 

spy. 

Speak, Hamlin I hast thou lodged our 
deer ? ' — 

* I have — but two fair stags are near. 



I 



CANTO FOURTH 



255 



I watched her as she slowly strayed 
From Egliston up Thorsgill glade, 
But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side, 760 
And then young Redmond in his pride 
Shot down to meet them on their way; 
Much, as it seemed, was theirs to say : 
There 's time to pitch both toil and net 
Before their path be homeward set.' 
A hurried and a whispered speech 
Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach, 
Who, turning to the robber band, 
Bade four, the bravest, take the brand. 



CANTO FOURTH 



When Denmark's raven soared on high. 
Triumphant through Northumbrian sky, 
The hovering near her fatal croak 
Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke, 
And the broad shadow of her wing 
Blackened each cataract and spring 
Where Tees in tumult leaves his source. 
Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force; 
Beneath the shade the Northmen came. 
Fixed on each vale a Runic name, 10 

Reared high their altar's rugged stone. 
And gave their gods the land they won. 
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine 
And one sweet brooklet's silver line. 
And Woden's Croft did title gain 
From the stern Father of the Slain; 
But to the Monarch of the Mace, 
That held in fight the foremost place, 
To Odin's son and Sifia's spouse, 19 

Near Startforth high they paid their vows, 
Remembered Thor's victorious fame. 
And gave the dell the Thunderer's name. 

II 
Yet Scald or Kemper erred, I ween, 
Who gave tliat soft and quiet scene. 
With all its varied light and shade. 
And every little sunny glade, 
And the blithe brook that strolls along 
Its pebbled bed with summer song, 
To the grim God of blood and scar. 
The grisly King of Northern War. 30 

O, better were its banks assigned 
To spirits of a gentler kind ! 
For where the thicket-groups recede 
And the rath primrose decks the mead. 
The velvet grass seems carpet meet 



For the light fairies' lively feet. 
Yon tufted knoll with daisies strown 
Might make proud Oberon a throne. 
While, hidden in the thicket nigh. 
Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly; 40 
And where profuse the wood- vetch clings 
Round ash and elm in verdant rings. 
Its pale and azure-pencilled flower 
Should canopy Titania's bower. 

Ill 

Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade; 

But, skirting every sunny glade. 

In fair variety of green 

The woodland lends its sylvan screen. 

Hoary yet haughty, frowns the oak. 

Its boughs by weight of ages broke; 50 

And towers erect in sable spire 

The pine-tree scathed by lightning-fire; 

The drooping ash and birch between 

Hang their fair tresses o'er the green, 

And all beneath at random grow 

Each coppice dwarf of varied show. 

Or, round the stems profusely twined, 

Fling summer odors on the wind. 

Such varied group Urbino's hand 

Round Him of Tarsus nobly planned, 60 

What time he bade proud Athens own 

On Mars' s Mount the God Unknown ! 

Then gray Philosophy stood nigh, 

Though bent by age, in spirit high: 

There rose the scar-seamed veteran's spear, 

There Grecian Beauty bent to hear, 

While Childhood at her foot was placed, 

Or clung delighted to her waist. 

IV 

* And rest we here,' Matilda said. 

And sat her in the varying shade. 70 

* Chance-met, we well may steal an hour, 
To friendship due from fortune's power. 
Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend 
Thy counsel to thy sister-f riend ; 

And, Redmond, thou, at my behest. 
No farther urge thy desperate quest. 
For to my care a charge is left, 
Dangerous to one of aid bereft, 
Wellnigh an orphan and alone, 
Captive her sire, her house o'erthrown.' 80 
Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced, 
Beside her on the turf she placed ; 
Then paused with downcast look and eye, 
Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh. 
Her conscious diffidence he saw, 
Drew backward as in modest awe, 



2S6 



ROKEBY 



And sat a little space removed, 
Unmarked to gaze on her he loved. 



Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair 

Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, 90 

Half hid and half revealed to view 

Her full dark eye of hazel hue. 

The rose with faint and feeble streak 

So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek 

That you had said her hue was pale; 

But if she faced the summer gale, 

Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved. 

Or heard the praise of those she loved. 

Or when of interest was expressed 

Aught that waked feeling in her breast, 100 

The mantling blood in ready play 

Rivalled the blush of rising day. 

There was a soft and pensive grace, 

A cast of thought upon her face. 

That suited well the forehead high. 

The eyelash dark and downcast eye; 

The mild expression spoke a mind 

In duty firm, composed, resigned; — 

'T is that which Roman art has given. 

To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven, no 

In hours of sport that mood gave way 

To Fancy's light and frolic play; 

And when the dance, or tale, or song 

In harmless mirth sped time along. 

Full oft her doting sire would call 

His Maud the merriest of them all. 

But days of war and civil crime 

Allowed but ill such festal time. 

And her soft pensiveness of brow 

Had deepened into sadness now. 120 

In Marston field her father ta'en. 

Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham 

slain. 
While every ill her soul foretold 
From Oswald's thirst of power and gold. 
And boding thoughts that she must part 
With a soft vision of her heart, — 
All lowered around the lovely maid, 
To darken her dejection's shade. 

VI 

Who has not heard — while Erin yet 
Strove 'gainst the Saxon's iron bit — 130 
Who has not heard how brave O'Neale 
In English blood imbrued his steel. 
Against Saint George's cross blazed high 
The banners of liis Tanistry, 
To fiery Essex gave the foil, 
And reigned a prince on Ulster's soil ? 



But chief arose his victor pride 
When that brave Marshal fought and died, 
And Avon-Duff to ocean bore 
His billows red with Saxon gore. 140 

'T was first in that disastrous fight 
Rokeby and Mortham proved their might. 
There had they fallen amongst the rest, 
But pity touched a chieftain's breast; 
The Tanist he to great O'Neale, 
He checked his followers' bloody zeal. 
To quarter took the kinsmen bold. 
And bore them to his mountain-hold, 
Gave them each sylvan joy to know 
Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could 
show, 150 

Shared with them Erin's festal cheer, 
Showed them the chase of wolf and deer, 
And, when a fitting time was come, 
Safe and unransomed sent them home, 
Loaded with many a gift to prove 
A generous foe's respect and love. 

VII 

Years speed away. On Rokeby's head 
Some touch of early snow was shed; 
Calm he enjoyed by Greta's wave 159 

The peace which James the Peaceful gave. 
While Mortham far beyond the main 
Waged his fierce wars on Indian Spain. — 
It chanced upon a wintry night 
That whitened Stanmore's stormy height,, 
The chase was o'er, the stag was killed, 
In Rokeby hall the cups were filled, 
And by the huge stone chimney sate 
The knight in hospitable state. 
Moonless the sky, the hour was late, 
When a loud summons shook the gate, 17c 
And sore for entrance and for aid 
A voice of foreign accent prayed. 
The porter answered to the call. 
And instant rushed into the hall 
A man whose aspect and attire 
Startled the circle by the fire. 

VIII 

His plaited hair in elf-locks spread 

Around his bare and matted head; 

On leg and thigh, close stretched and trim, 

His vesture showed the sinewy limb; iSo 

In saffron dyed, a linen vest 

Was frequent folded round his breast; 

A mantle long and loose he wore. 

Shaggy with ice and stained with gore. 

He clasped a burden to his heart, 

And, resting on a knotted dart, 



CANTO FOURTH 



257 



The snow from hair and beard he shook, 

And round him gazed with wildered look. 

Then up the hall with staggering pace 

He hastened by the blaze to place, 190 

Half lifeless from the bitter air, 

His load, a boy of beauty rare. 

To Rokeby next he louted low. 

Then stood erect his tale to show 

With wild majestic port and tone. 

Like envoy of some barbarous throne. 

* Sir Richard, Lord of Rokeby, hear ! 

Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear; 

He graces thee, and to thy care 19Q 

Young Redmond gives, his grandson fair. 

He bids thee breed him as thy son, 

For Turlough's days of joy are done, 

And other lords have seized his land. 

And faint and feeble is his hand, 

And all the glory of Tyrone 

Is like a morning vapor flown. 

To bind the duty on thy soul, 

He bids thee think on Erin's bowl ! 

If any wrong the young O'Neale, 

He bids thee think of Erin's steel. 210 

To Mortham first this charge was due, 

But in his absence honors you. — 

Now is my master's message by, 

And Ferraught will contented die.' 

His look grew fixed, his cheek grew pale, 

He sunk when he had told his tale; 

For, hid beneath his mantle wide, 

A mortal wound was in his side. 

Vain was all aid — in terror wild 

And sorrow screamed the orphan child. 220 

Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes. 

And faintly strove to soothe his cries; 

All reckless of his dying pain. 

He blest and blest him o'er again. 

And kissed the little hands outspread. 

And kissed and crossed the infant head, 

And in his native tongue and phrase v ; 

Prayed to each saint to watch his days ; 

Then all his strength together drew 

The charge to Rokeby to renew. 230 

When half was faltered from his breast. 

And half by dying signs expressed, 

• Bless thee, O'Neale ! ' he faintly said^ 

And thus the faithful spirit fled. 



T was long ere soothing might prevail 
Upon the child to end the tale : 



And then he said that from his home 
His grandsire had been forced to roam. 
Which had not been if Redmond's hand 
Had but had strength to draw the brand. 
The brand of Lenaugh More the Red, 241 
That hung beside the gray wolf's head. — 
'T was from his broken phrase descried, 
His foster father was his guide, 
Who in his charge from Ulster bore 
Letters and gifts a goodly store; 
But ruffians met them in the wood, 
Ferraught in battle boldly stood. 
Till wounded and overpowered at length. 
And stripped of all, his failing strength 25c 
Just bore him here — and then the child 
Renewed again his moaning wild. 

XI 

The tear down childhood's cheek that flows 
Is like the dew-drop on the rose ; 
When next the summer breeze comes by 
And waves the bush, the flower is dry. 
Won by their care, the orphan child 
Soon on his new protector smiled. 
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair, 
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair, 26c 
But blithest laughed that cheek and eye, 
When Rokeby 's little maid was nigh; 
'T was his with elder brother's pride 
Matilda's tottering steps to guide; 
His native lays in Irish tongue 
To soothe her infant ear he sung. 
And primrose twined with daisy fair 
To form a chaplet for her hair. 
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand, 
The children still were hand in hand, 271: 
And good Sir Richard smiling eyed 
The early knot so kindly tied. 

XII 
But summer months bring wilding shoot 
From bud to bloom, from bloom to fruit; 
And years draw on our human span 
From child to boy, from boy to man; 
And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen 
A gallant boy in hunter's green. 
He loves to wake the felon boar 
In his dark haunt on Greta's shore, aSc 

And loves against the deer so dun 
To draw the shaft, or lift the gun: 
Yet more lie loves in autumn prime 
The hazel's spreading boughs to climb, 
And down its clustered stores to hail 
Where young Matilda holds lier veil. 



25^ 



ROKEBY 



And she whose veil receives the shower 

Is altered too and knows her power, 

Assumes a monitress's pride 289 

Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide, 

Yet listens still to hear him tell 

How the grim wild-boar fought and fell, 

How at his fall the bugle rung, 

Till rock and greenwood answer flung; 

Then blesses her that man can find 

A pastime of such savage kind I 

XIII 

But Redmond knew to weave his tale 

So well with praise of wood and dale, 

And knew so well each point to trace 

Gives living interest to the chase, 300 

And knew so well o'er all to throw 

His spirit's wild romantic glow. 

That, while she blamed and while she 

feared. 
She loved each venturous tale she heard. 
Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain 
To bower and hall their steps restrain, 
Together they explored the page 
Of glowing bard or gifted sage; 
Oft, placed the evening fire beside, 
The minstrel art alternate tried, 310 

While gladsome harp and lively lay 
Bade winter night flit fast away: 
Thus, from their childhood blending still 
Their sport, their study, and their skill, 
An union of the soul they prove. 
But must not think that it was love. 
But though they dared not, envious Fame 
Soon dared to give that union name ; 
And when so often side by side 
From year to year the pair she eyed, 320 
She sometimes blamed the good old knight 
As dull of ear and dim of sight. 
Sometimes his purpose would declare 
That young O'Neale should wed his heir. 

XIV 

The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise 

And bandage from the lovers' eyes; 

'T was plain that Oswald for his son 

Had Rokeby's favor wellnigh won. 

Now must they meet with change of cheer. 

With mutual looks of shame and fear; 330 

Now must Matilda stray apart 

To school her disobedient heart. 

And Redmond now alone must rue 

The love he never can subdue. 

But factions rose, and Rokeby sware 

No rebel's son should wed his heir; 



350 



And Redmond, nurtured while a child 
In many a bard's traditions wild. 
Now sought the lonely wood or stream, 
To cherish there a happier dream 
Of maiden won by sword or lance. 
As in the regions of romance; 
And count the heroes of his line. 
Great Nial of the Pledges Nine, 
Shane-Dymas wild, and Geraldine, 
And Connan-more, who vowed his race 
For ever to the fight and chase. 
And cursed him of his lineage born 
Should sheathe the sword to reap 

corn, 
Or leave the mountain and the wold 
To shroud himself in castled hold. 
From such examples hope he drew, 
And brightened as the trumpet blew. 

XV 

If brides were won by heart and blade, 

Redmond had both his cause to aid. 

And all beside of nurture rare 

That might beseem a baron's heir. 

Turlough O'Neale in Erin's strife 

On Rokeby's Lord bestowed his life, 

And well did Rokeby's generous knight 360 

Young Redmond for the deed requite. 

Nor was his liberal care and cost 

Upon the gallant stripling lost: 

Seek the North Riding broad and wide, 

Like Redmond none could steed bestride; 

From Tynemouth search to Cumberland, 

Like Redmond none could wield a brand; 

And then, of humor kind and free. 

And bearing him to each degree 

With frank and fearless courtesy, 370 

There never youth was formed to steal 

Upon the heart like brave O'Neale. 

XVI 

Sir Richard loved him as his son; 
And when the days of peace were done. 
And to the gales of war he gave 
The banner of his sires to wave, 
Redmond, distinguished by his care, 
He chose that honored flag to bear. 
And named his page, the next degree 
In that old time to chivalry. 380 

In five pitched fields he well maintained 
The honored place his worth obtained. 
And high was Redmond's youthful name 
Blazed in the roll of martial fame. 
Had fortune smiled on Marston fight, 
The eve had seen him dubbed a knight; 



CANTO FOURTH 



259 



Twice mid the battle's doubtful strife 
Of Rokeby's Lord be saved the life, 
But when he saw him prisoner made, 
He kissed and then resigned his blade, 390 
And yielded him an easy prey 
To those who led the knight away, 
Uesolved Matilda's sire should prove 
In prison, as in fight, his love. 

XVII 

When lovers meet in adverse hour, 

'T is like a sun-glimpse through a shower, 

A watery ray an instant seen 

The darkly closing clouds between. 

As Redmond on the turf reclined. 

The past and present filled his mind: 400 

* It was not thus,' Affection said, 

* I dreamed of my return, dear maid ! 
Not thus when from thy trembling hand 
I took the banner and the brand. 
When round me, as the bugles blew. 
Their blades three hundred warriors drew. 
And, while the standard I unrolled, 
Clashed their bright arms, with clamor 

bold. 
Where is that banner now ? — its pride 
Lies whelmed in Ouse's sullen tide ! 410 
Where now these warriors ? — in their gore 
They cumber Marston's dismal moor ! 
And what avails a useless brand. 
Held by a captive's shackled hand. 
That only would his life retain 
To aid thy sire to bear his chain ! ' 
Thus Redmond to himself apart. 
Nor lighter was his rival's heart; 
For Wilfrid, while his generous soul 
Disdained to profit by control, 420 

By many a sign could mark too plain. 
Save with such aid, his hopes were vain. 
But now Matilda's accents stole 
On the dark visions of their soul. 
And bade their mournful musing fly, 
Like mist before the zephyr's sigh. 

XVIII 

' I need not to my friends recall, 

How Mortham shunned my father's hall, 

A man of silence and of woe, 

Yet ever anxious to bestow 430 

On my poor self whate'er could prove 

A kinsman's confidence and love. 

My feeble aid could sometimes chase 

The clouds of sorrow for a space ; 

But oftener, fixed beyond my power, 

[ marked his deep despondence lower. 



One dismal cause, by all unguessed. 
His fearful confidence confessed; 
And twice it was my hap to see 
Examples of that agony 440 

Which for a season can o'erstrain 
And wreck the structure of the brain. 
He had the awful power to know 
The approaching mental overthrow, 
And while his mind had courage yet 
To struggle with the dreadful fit, 
The victim writhed against its throes. 
Like wretch beneath a murderer's blows. 
This malady, I well could mark. 
Sprung from some direful cause and 
dark, 450 

But still he kept its source concealed. 
Till arming for the civil field ; 
Then in my charge he bade me hold 
A treasure huge of gems and gold, 
With this disjointed dismal scroll 
That tells the secret of his soul 
In such wild words as oft betray 
A mind by anguish forced astray.' 

XIX 
mortham' S HISTORY 

* Matilda ! thou hast seen me start. 

As if a dagger thrilled my heart, 460 

When it has happed some casual phrase 

Waked memory of my former days. 

Believe that few can backward cast 

Their thought with pleasure on the past; 

But I ! — my youth was rash and vain, 

And blood and rage my manhood stain, 

And my gray hairs must now descend 

To my cold grave without a friend ! 

Even thou, Matilda, wilt disown 

Thy kinsman when his guilt is known. 470 

And must I lift the bloody veil 

That hides my dark and fatal tale ? 

I must — I will — Pale phantom, cease ! 

Leave me one little hour in peace ! 

Thus haunted, think'st thou I have skill 

Thine own commission to fulfil ? 

Or, while thou point'st with gesture fierce 

Thy blighted cheek, thy bloody hearse. 

How can I paint thee as thou wert. 

So fair in face, so warm in heart I — 4SC 

XX 

* Yes, she was fair ! — Matilda, thou 
Hast a soft sadness on thy brow; 
But hers was like the sunny glow, 
That laughs on earth and all below I 



26o 



ROKEBY 



We wedded secret — there was ueed — 

Differing in country and in creed; 

And when to Mortham's tower she came, 

We mentioned not her race and name, 

Until thy sire, who fought afar, 489 

Should turn him home from foreign war, 

On whose kind influence we relied 

To soothe her father's ire and pride. 

Few months we lived retired, unknown 

To all but one dear friend alone. 

One darling friend — I spare his shame, 

I will not write the villain's name ! 

My trespasses 1 might forget. 

And sue in vengeance for the debt 

Due by a brother worm to me, 

Ungrateful to God's clemency, 500 

That spared me penitential time, 

Nor cut me off amid my crime. — 

XXI 

* A kindly smile to all she lent. 

But on her husband's friend 't was bent 

So kind that from its harmless glee 

The wretch misconstrued villany. 

Repulsed in his presumptuous love, 

A vengeful snare the traitor wove. 

Alone we sat — the flask had flowed. 

My blood with heat unwonted glowed, 510 

When through the alleyed walk we spied 

With hurried step my Edith glide. 

Cowering beneath the verdant screen, 

As one unwilling to be seen. 

Words cannot paint the fiendish smile 

That curled the traitor's cheek the while ! 

Fiercely I questioned of the cause; 

He made a cold and artful pause, i 

Then prayed it might not chafe my mood — ' 

" There was a gallant in the wood ! " 520 ; 

We had been shooting at the deer; ■ 

My cross-bow — evil chance ! — was near: 

That ready weapon of my wrath 

I caught and, hasting up the path, 

In the yew grove my wife I found; 

A stranger's arms her neck had bound ! 

I marked his heart — the bow I drew — 

I loosed the shaft — 't was more than true ! 

I found my Edith's dying charms 529 

Locked in her murdered brother's arms ! 

He came in secret to inquire 

Her state and reconcile her sire. 

XXII 

* All fled ray rage — the villain first 
Whose craft my jealousy had nursed; 



He sought in far and foreign clime 

To 'scape the vengeance of his crime. 

The manner of the slaughter done 

Was known to few, my guilt to none; 

Some tale my faithful steward framed — 

I know not what — of shaft mis-aimed; 54c 

And even from those the act who knew 

He hid the hand from which it flew. 

Untouched by human laws I stood. 

But God had heard the cry of blood ! 

There is a blank upon my mind, 

A fearful vision ill-defined 

Of raving till my flesh was torn. 

Of dungeon-bolts and fetters worn — 

And when I waked to woe more mild 

And questioned of my infant child — 550 

Have I not wi'itten that she bare 

A boy, like summer morning fair ? — 

With looks confused my menials tell 

That armed men in Mortham dell 

Beset the nurse's evening way. 

And bore her with her charge away. 

My faithless friend, and none but he. 

Could profit by this villany ; 

Him then I sought with purpose dread 

Of treble vengeance on his head ! 560 

He 'scaped me — but my bosom's wound 

Some faint relief from wandering found. 

And over distant land and sea 

I bore my load of misery. 

XXIII 

* 'T was then that fate my footsteps led 

Among a daring crew and dread. 

With whom full oft my hated life 

I ventured in such desperate strife 

That even my fierce associates saw 

My frantic deeds with doubt and awe. 570 

Much then I learned and much can show 

Of human guilt and human woe. 

Yet ne'er have in my wanderings known 

A wretch whose sorrows matched my 

own ! — 
It chanced that after battle fray 
Upon the bloody field we lay; 
The yellow moon her lustre shed 
Upon the wounded and the dead, 
While, sense in toil and wassail drowned, 
My ruffian comrades slept around, 580 

There came a voice — its silver tone 
Was soft, Matilda, as thine own — 
" Ah, wretch ! " it said, " what mak'st thou 

here, 
While unavenged my bloody bier. 



CANTO FOURTH 



261 



While unprotected lives mine heir 
Without a father's name and care ? " 

XXIV 

' I heard — obeyed — and honaeward drew; 

The fiercest of our desperate crew 

I brought, at time of need to aid 

My purposed vengeance long delayed. 590 

But humble be my thanks to Heaven 

That better hopes and thoughts has given, 

And by our Lord's dear prayer has taught 

Mercy by mercy must be bought ! — 

Let me in misery rejoice — 

I 've seen his face — I Ve heard his 

voice — 
I claimed of him my only child — 
As he disowned the theft, he smiled ! 
That very calm and callous look, 
That fiendish sneer his visage took, 600 

As when he said, in scornful mood, 
" There is a gallant in the wood ! " — 
I did not slay him as he stood — 
All praise be to my Maker given ! 
Long suffrance is one path to heaven.' 

XXV 

Thus far the wof ul tale was heard 
When something in the thicket stirred. 
Up Redmond sprung; the villain Guy — 
For he it was that lurked so nigh — 
Drew back — he durst not cross his steel 6io 
A moment's space with brave O'Neale 
For all the treasured gold that rests 
In Mortham's iron-banded chests. 
Redmond resumed his seat; — he said 
Some roe was rustling in the shade. 
Bertram laughed grimly when he saw 
His timorous comrade backward draw; 
* A trusty mate art thou, to fear 
A single arm, and aid so near ! 
Yet have I seen thee mark a deer. 620 

Give me thy carabine — I '11 show 
An art that thou wilt gladly know. 
How thou mayst safely quell a foe.' 

XXVI 

On hands and knees fierce Bertram drew 
The spreading birch and hazels through. 
Till he had Redmond full in view; 
The gun he levelled — Mark like tliis 
Was Bertram never known to miss, 
When fair opposed to aim their sate 
An object of liis mortal hate. 630 

That day young Redmond's death had seen, 
But twice MatiUla came between 



The carabine and Redmond's breast 
Just ere the spring his finger pressed. 
A deadly oath the ruffian swore. 
But yet his fell design forbore: 

* It ne'er,' he muttered, * shall be said 
That thus I scathed thee, haughty maid ! ' 
Then moved to seek more open aim. 
When to his side Guy Denzil came: 64c 

* Bertram, forbear ! — we are undone 
For ever, if thou fire the gun. 

By all the fiends, an armed force 
Descends the dell of foot and horse ! 
We perish if they hear a shot — 
Madman ! we have a safer plot — 
Nay, friend, be ruled, and bear thee 

back 1 
Behold, down yonder hollow track 
The warlike leader of the band 
Comes with his broadsword in his hand.' 650 
Bertram looked up ; he saw, he knew 
That Denzil's fears had counselled true, 
Then cursed his fortune and withdrew. 
Threaded the woodlands undescried, 
And gained the cave on Greta side. 

XXVII 

They whom dark Bertram in his wrath 
Doomed to captivity or death. 
Their thoughts to one sad subject lent. 
Saw not nor heard the ambushment. 
Heedless and unconcerned they sate 660 
While on the very verge of fate. 
Heedless and unconcerned remained 
When Heaven the murderer's arm re- 
strained ; 
As ships drift darkling down the tide, 
Nor see the shelves o'er which they glide. 
Uninterrupted thus they heard 
What Mortham's closing tale declared. 
He spoke of wealth as of a load 
By fortune on a wretch bestowed, 
In bitter mockery of hate, 670 

His cureless woes to aggravate; 
But yet he prayed Matilda's care 
Might save that treasure for his heir — 
His Edith's son — for still he raved 
As confident his life was saved ; 
In frequent vision, he averred, 
He saw his face, his voice he heard. 
Then argued calm — had murder been, 
The blood, the corpses, had been seen; 
Some had pretended, too, to mark 68a 

On Windermere a stranger bark. 
Whose crew, witli jeah)ns care yet mild, 
Guarded a female and a child. 



262 



ROKEBY 



While these faint proofs he told aud 

pressed, 
Hope seemed to kindle in his breast; 
Though inconsistent, vague, and vain, 
It warped bis judgment and bis brain. 

XXVIII 

These solemn words his story close: — 

* Heaven witness for me that I chose 

My part in this sad civil fight 690 

Moved by no cause but England's right. 

My country's groans have bid me draw 

My sword for gospel and for law; — 

These righted, I fling arms aside 

And seek my son through Europe wide. 

My wealth, on which a kinsman nigh 

Already casts a grasping eye, 

With thee may unsuspected lie. 

When of my death Matilda hears. 

Let her retain her trust three years; 700 

If none from me the treasure claim. 

Perished is Mortham's race and name. 

Then let it leave her generous hand, 

And flow in bounty o'er the land, 

Soften the wounded prisoner's lot, 

Rebuild the peasant's ruined cot; 

So spoils, acquired by fight afar, 

Shall mitigate domestic war.' 

XXIX 
The generous youths, who well had known 

Of Mortham's mind the powerful tone, 710 

To that high mind by sorrow swerved 

Gave sympathy his woes deserved; 

But Wilfrid chief, who saw revealed 

Why Mortham wished his life concealed, 

In secret, doubtless, to pursue 

The schemes his wildered fancy drew. 

Thoughtful he heard Matilda tell 

That she would share her father's cell, 

His partner of captivity, 

Where'er his prison-house should be; 720 

Yet grieved to think that Rokeby-hall, 

Dismantled and forsook by all, 

Open to rapine and to stealth. 

Had now no safeguard for the wealth 

Intrusted by her kinsman kind 

And for such noble use designed. 

* Was Barnard Castle then her choice,' 
Wilfrid inquired with hasty voice, 

* Since there the victor's laws ordain 

Her father must a space remain ? ' 73c 

A fluttered hope his accent shook, 
A fluttered joy was in his look. 



Matilda hastened to reply, 

For anger flashed in Redmond's eye; — 

* Duty,' she said, with gentle grace, 
*Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place; 
Else had I for my sire assigned 
Prison less galling to his mind 

Than that his wild-wood haunts which sees 
And hears the murmur of the Tees, 740 
Recalling thus with every glance 
What captive's sorrow can enhance; 
But where those woes are highest, there 
Xeeds Rokeby most his daughter's care.' 

XXX 

He felt the kindly check she gave. 

And stood abashed — then answered grave: 

* I sought thy purpose, noble maid, 
Thy doubts to clear, thy schemes to aid. 
I have beneath mine own command, 

So wills my sire, a gallant band, 750 

And well could send some horsemen wight 
To bear the treasure forth by night. 
And so bestow it as you deem 
In these ill days may safest seem.' 

* Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks,' she said 

* O, be it not one day delayed ! 
And, more thy sister-friend to aid, 
Be thou thyself content to hold 
In thine own keeping Mortham's gold, 759 
Safest with thee.' — While thus she spoke, 
Armed soldiers on their converse broke, 
The same of whose approach afraid 

The ruffians left their ambuscade. 
Their chief to Wilfrid bended low. 
Then looked around as for a foe. 

* What mean'st thou, friend,' young Wy- 

cliffe said, 

* Why thus in arms beset the glade ? ' — 

* That would I gladly learn from you; 
For up my squadron as I drew 
To exercise our martial game 7; 
Upon the moor of Barninghame, 
A stranger told you were waylaid, 
Surrounded, and to death betrayed. 
He had a leader's voice, I ween, 
A falcon glance, a warrior's mien. 
He bade me bring you instant aid; 
I doubted not and I obeyed.' 



XXXI 

Wilfrid changed color, and amazed 
Turned short and on the speaker gazed. 
While Redmond every thicket round 780 
Tracked earnest as a questing bound, 



I 



CANTO FIFTH 



263 



And Denzil's carabine he found; 

Sure evidence by which they knew 

The warning was as kind as true. 

Wisest it seemed with cautious speed 

To leave the dell. It was agreed 

That Redmond with Matilda fair 

And fitting guard should home repair; 

At nightfall Wilfrid should attend 

With a strong band his sister-friend, 790 

To bear with her from Rokeby's bowers 

To Barnard Castle's lofty towers 

Secret and safe the banded chests 

In which the wealth of Mortham rests. 

This hasty purpose fixed, they part, 

Each with a grieved and anxious heart. 



CANTO FIFTH 



The sultry summer day is done, 

The western hills have hid the sun. 

But mountain peak and village spire 

Retain reflection of his fire. 

Old Barnard's towers are purple still 

To those that gaze from Toller-hill; 

Distant and high, the tower of Bowes 

Like steel upon the anvil glows; 

And Stanmore's ridge behind that lay 

Rich with the spoils of parting day, 10 

In crimson and in gold arrayed. 

Streaks yet awhile the closing shade. 

Then slow resigns to darkening heaven 

The tints which brighter hours had given. 

Thus aged men full loath and slow 

The vanities of life forego. 

And count their youthful follies o'er 

Till memory lends her light no more. 

II 

The eve that slow on upland fades 

Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades 20 

Where, sunk within their banks profound. 

Her guardian streams to meeting wound. 

The stately oaks, whose sombre frown 

Of noontide made a twilight brown. 

Impervious now to fainter light. 

Of twilight make an early night. 

Hoarse into middle air arose 

The vespers of the roosting crows. 

And with congenial murmurs seem 

To wake the Genii of the stream; 30 

For louder clamored Greta's tide, 

And Tees in deeper voice replied, 



And fitful waked the evening wind, 
Fitful in sighs its breath resigned. 
Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul 
Felt in the scene a soft control. 
With lighter footstep pressed the ground, 
And often paused to look around; 
And, though his path was to his love, 
Could not but linger in the grove, 4c 

To drink the thrilling interest dear 
Of awful pleasure checked by fear. 
Such inconsistent moods have we. 
Even when our passions strike the key. 

Ill 

Now, through the wood's dark mazes past, 
The opening lawn he reached at last 
Where, silvered by the moonlight ray, 
The ancient Hall before him lay. 
Those martial terrors long were fled 
That frowned of old around its head: 50 
The battlements, the turrets gray, 
Seemed half abandoned to decay; 
On barbi<jan and keep of stone 
Stern Time the foeman's work had done. 
Where banners the invader braved. 
The harebell now and wallflower waved; 
In the rude guard-room where of yore 
Their weary hours the warders wore. 
Now, while the cheerful fagots blaze, 
On the paved floor the spindle plays; 60 
The flanking guns dismounted lie. 
The moat is ruinous and dry, 
The grim portcullis gone — and all 
The fortress turned to peaceful Hall. 

IV 

But yet precautions lately ta'en 
Showed danger's day revived again; 
The court-yard wall showed marks of care 
The fall'n defences to repair, 
Lending such strength as might withstand 
The insult of marauding band. 7c 

The beams once more were taught to bear 
The trembling drawbridge into air, 
And not till questioned o'er and o'er 
For Wilfrid oped the jealous door, 
And when ho entered bolt and bar 
Resumed their place with sullen jar; 
Then, as he crossed the vaulted porch, 
The old gray porter raised his torch, 
And viewed him o'er from foot to head 
Ere to the hall his stops he led. 80 

That huge old hall of knightly state 
Dismantled seemed and desolate. 



264 



ROKEBY 



The moon through transom-shafts of stone 
Which crossed the latticed oriels shone, 
And by the mournful light she gave 
The Gothic vault seemed funeral cave. 
Pennon and banner waved no more 
O'er beams of stag and tusks of boar, 
Nor glimmering arms were marshalled 

seen 
To glance those sylvan spoils between, go 
Those arms, those ensigns, borne away, 
Accomplished Kokeby's brave array. 
But all were lost on Marston's day ! 
Yet here and there the moonbeams fall 
Where armor yet adorns the wall, 
Cumbrous of size, uncouth to sight, 
And useless in the modern fight, 
Like veteran relic of the wars 
Known only by neglected scars. 



Matilda soon to greet him came, 100 

And bade them light the evening flame; 

Said all for parting was prepared, 

And tarried but for Wilfrid's guard. 

But then, reluctant to unfold 

His father's avarice of gold. 

He hinted that lest jealous eye 

Should on their precious burden pry. 

He judged it best the castle gate 

To enter when the night wore late; 

And therefore he had left command no 

With those he trusted of his band 

That they should be at Rokeby met 

What time the midnight-watch was set. 

Now Redmond came, whose anxious care 

Till then was busied to prepare 

All needful, meetly to arrange 

The mansion for its mournful change. 

With Wilfrid's care and kindness pleased. 

His cold unready hand he seized, 

And pressed it till his kindly strain 120 

The gentle youth returned again. 

Seemed as between them this was said, 

' Awhile let jealousy be dead, 

And let our contest be whose care 

Shall best assist this helpless fair.' 

VI 

There was no speech the truce to bind; 
It was a compact of the mind, 
A generous thought at once impressed 
On either rival's generous breast. 
Matilda well the secret took 130 

Fyom sudden change of mien and look, 



150 



And — for not small had been her fear 

Of jealous ire and danger near — 

Felt even in her dejected state 

A joy beyond the reach of fate. 

They closed beside the chimney's blaze, 

And talked, and hoped for happier days, 

And lent their spirits' rising glow 

Awhile to gild impending woe — 

High privilege of youthful time, 140 

Worth all the pleasures of our prime !: 

The bickering fagot sparkled bright 

And gave the scene of love to sight. 

Bade Wilfrid's cheek more lively glow,. 

Played on Matilda's neck of snow. 

Her nut-brown curls and forehead high, 

And laughed in Redmond's azure eye. 

Two lovers by the maiden sate 

Without a glance of jealous hate; 

The maid her lovers sat between 

With open brow and equal mien; 

It is a sight but rarely spied. 

Thanks to man's wrath and woman's pride 

VII 

While thus in peaceful guise they sate 
A knock alarmed the outer gate, 
And ere the tardy porter stirred 
The tinkling of a harp was heard. 
A manly voice of mellow swell 
Bore burden to the music well: — 



SONG 

' Summer eve is gone and past, x6o 

Summer dew is falling fast; 
I have wandered all the day, 
Do not bid me farther stray ! 
Gentle hearts of gentle kin, 
Take the wandering harper in ! ' 

But the stern porter answer gave, 

With * Get thee hence, thou strolling knave \ 

The king wants soldiers; war, I trow, 

Were meeter trade for such as thou.' 

At this unkind reproof again 170 

Answered the ready Minstrel's strain: 

SONG RESUMED 

* Bid not me, in battle-field, 
Buckler lift or broadsword wield ! 
All my strength and all my art 
Is to touch the gentle heart 
With the wizard notes that ring 
From the peaceful minstrel-string.' 



I 



CANTO FIFTH 



265 



The porter, all unmoved, replied, — 

* Depart in peace, with Heaven to guide; 
If longer by the gate thou dwell, 180 
Trust me, thou shalt not part so well.' 

VIII 
With somewhat of appealing look 
The harper's part young Wilfrid took: 

* These notes so wild and ready thrill. 
They show no vulgar minstrel's skill ; 
Hard were his task to seek a home 
More distant, since the night is come; 
And for his faith I dare engage — 
Your Harpool's blood is soured by age; 
His gate, once readily displayed 190 
To greet the friend, the poor to aid. 

Now even to me though known of old 
Did but reluctantly unfold.' — 

* O blame not as poor Harpool's crime 
An evil of this evil time. 

He deems dependent on his care 
The safety of his patron's heir. 
Nor judges meet to ope the tower 
To guest unknown at parting hour, 
Urging his duty to excess 200 

Of rough and stubborn faithfulness. 
For this poor harper, I would fain 
He may relax : — hark to his strain ! ' 

IX 
SONG RESUMED 

* I have song of war for knight, 
Lay of love for lady bright. 
Fairy tale to lull the heir. 
Goblin grim the maids to scare. 
Dark the night and long till day, 
Do not bid me farther stray ! 

* Rokeby's lords of martial fame, 210 
I can count them name by name; 
Legends of their line there be. 
Known to few but known to me; 

If you honor Rokeby's kin, 
Take the wandering harper in ! 

* Rokeby's lords had fair regard 
For the harp and for the bard ; 
Baron's race throve never well 
Where the curse of minstrel fell. 

If you love that noble kin, 220 

Take the weary harper in ! ' 

* Hark I Harpool parleys — there is hope,' 
Said Redmond, * that the gate will ope.' — 



* For all thy brag and boast, I trow. 
Nought knowest thou of the Felon Sow,' 
Quoth Harpool, * nor how Greta-side 
She roamed and Rokeby forest wide; 
Nor how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast 
To Richmond's friars to make a feast. 
Of Gilbert Griffinson the tale 23 

Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale 
That well could strike with sword amain, 
And of the valiant son of Spain, 
Friar Middleton, and blithe Sir Ralph; 
There were a jest to make us laugh ! 
If thou canst tell it, in yon shed. 
Thou 'st won thy supper and thy bed.' 



Matilda smiled; *Cold hope,' said she, 

* From Harpool's love of minstrelsy ! 

But for this harper may we dare, 24* 

Redmond, to mend his couch and fare ? ' — 

* O, ask me not ! — At minstrel-string 
My heart from infancy would spring; 
Nor can I hear its simplest strain 
But it brings Erin's dream again. 
When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee — 
The Filea of O'Neale was he, 

A blind and bearded man whose eld 

Was sacred as a prophet's held — 

I 've seen a ring of rugged kerne, 250 

With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern. 

Enchanted by the master's lay. 

Linger around the livelong day. 

Shift from wild rage to wilder glee, 

To love, to grief, to ecstasy. 

And feel each varied change of soul 

Obedient to the bard's control. — 

Ah ! Clandeboy ! thy friendly floor 

Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no more; 

Nor Owen's harp beside the blaze 26c 

Tell maiden's love or hero's praise ! 

The mantling brambles hide thy hearth, 

Centre of hospitable mirth; 

All undistinguished in the glade, 

My sires' glad home is prostrate laid. 

Their vassals wander wide and far. 

Serve foreign lords in distant war. 

And now the stranger's sons enjoy 

The lovely woods of Clandeboy ! ' 

He spoke, and proudly turned aside 27c 

The starting tear to dry and hide. 

XI 

Matilda's dark and softened eye 
Was ijlistening ere O'Neale's was dry. 



266 



ROKEBY 



Her hand upon his arm she laid, — 

* It is the will of Heaven,' she said. 

* And think'st thou, Redmond, I can part 
From this loved home with lightsome 

heart. 
Leaving to wild neglect whate'er 
Even from my infancy was dear ? 
For in this calm domestic bound 280 

Were all Matilda's pleasures found. 
That hearth my sire was wont to grace 
Full soon may be a stranger's place ; 
This hall in which a child I played 
Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid, 
The bramble and the thorn may braid; 
Or, passed for aye from me and mine, 
It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line. 
Yet is this consolation given, 289 

My Redmond, — 't is the will of Heaven.' 
Her word, her action, and her phrase 
Were kindly as in early days; 
For cold reserve had lost its power 
In sorrow's sympathetic hour. 
Young Redmond dared not trust his voice ; 
But rather had it been his choice 
To share that melancholy hour 
Than, armed with all a chieftain's power. 
In full possession to enjoy 
Slieve-Donard wide and Clandeboy. 300 

XII 

The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek, 
Matilda sees and hastes to speak. — 

* Happy in friendship's ready aid. 
Let all my murmurs here be staid ! 
And Rokeby's maiden will not part 
From Rokeby's hall with moody heart. 
This night at least for Rokeby's fame 
The hospitable hearth shall flame. 
And ere its native heir retire 

Find for the wanderer rest and fire, 310 

While this poor harper by the blaze 

Recounts the tale of other days. 

Bid Harpool ope the door with speed, 

Admit him and relieve each need. — 

Meantime, kind WyclifPe, wilt thou try 

Thy minstrel skill ? — Nay, no reply — 

And look not sad ! — I guess thy thought; 

Thy verse with laurels would be bought. 

And poor Matilda, landless now. 

Has not a garland for thy brow. 320 

True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's glades, 

Nor wander more in Greta shades; 

But sure, no rigid jailer, thou 

Wilt a short prison-walk allow 

Where summer flowers grow wild at will 



1 



On Marwood-chase and Toller Hill; 

Then holly green and lily gay 

Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay.' 

The mournful youth a space aside 

To tune Matilda's harp applied, 330 

And then a low sad descant rung 

As prelude to the lay he sung. 

XIII 

THE CYPRESS WREATH 

* O, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree 1 
Too lively glow the lilies light, 
The varnished holly 's all too bright, 
The May-flower and the eglantine 
May shade a brow less sad than mine; 
But, lady, weave no wreath for me, 

Or weave it of the cypress-tree ! 34c 

* Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
With tendrils of the laughing vine; 
The manly oak, the pensive yew. 

To patriot and to sage be due; 
The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
But that Matilda will not give ; 
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 

* Let merry England proudly rear 

Her blended roses bought so dear; 350 

Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 

With heath and harebell dipped in dew; 

On favored Erin's crest be seen 

The flower she loves of emerald green — 

But, lady, twine no wreath for me, 

Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 

* Strike the wild harp while maids pre- 

pare 
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; 
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves 
With bloody hand the victor weaves, 360 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; 
But when you hear the passing-bell. 
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me. 
And twine it of the cypress-tree. 

* Yes I twine for me the cypress-bough; 
But, O Matilda, twine not now ! 

Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And I have looked and loved my last ! 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — 370 



CANTO FIFTH 



267 



Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, 
And weave it of the cypress-tree.' 

XIV 
O'Neale observed the starting tear, 
And spoke with kind and blithesome 
cheer — 

* No, noble Wilfrid ! ere the day 
When mourns the land thy silent lay, 
Shall many a wreath be freely wove 
By hand of friendship and of love. 

I would not wish that rigid Fate 
Had doomed thee to a captive's state, 380 
Whose hands are bound by honor's law. 
Who wears a sword he must not draw; 
But were it so, in minstrel pride 
The land together would we ride 
On prancing steeds, like harpers old. 
Bound for the halls of barons bold; 
Each lover of the lyre we 'd seek 
From Michael's Mount to Skiddaw's Peak, 
Survey wild Albin's mountain strand. 
And roam green Erin's lovely land, 390 

While thou the gentler souls should move 
With lay of pity and of love. 
And I, thy mate, in rougher strain 
Would sing of war and warriors slain. 
Old England's bards were vanquished 

then, 
And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden, 
And, silenced on lernian shore, 
M'Curtin's harp should charm no more ! ' 
In lively mood he spoke to wile 
From Wilfrid's woe - worn cheek a 

smile. 400 

XV 

* But,' said Matilda, * ere thy name. 
Good Redmond, gain its destined fame, 
Say, wilt thou kindly deign to call 
Thy brother-minstrel to the hall ? 

Bid all the household too attend, 

Each in his rank a humble friend; 

I know their faithful hearts will grieve 

When their poor mistress takes her leave; 

So let the horn and beaker flow 

To mitigate their parting woe.' 410 

The harper came ; — in youth's first prime 

Himself; in mode of olden time 

His garb was fashioned, to express 

The ancient English minstrel's dress, 

A seemly gown of Kendal green 

With gorget closed of silver sheon; 

His harp in silken scarf was slung, 

And by his side an anlaco hung. 



It seemed some masquer's quaint array 
For reveler for holiday. 



420 



XVI 



He made obeisance with a free 

Yet studied air of courtesy. 

Each look and accent framed to please 

Seemed to affect a playful ease; 

His face was of that doubtful kind 

That wins the eye, but not the mind; 

Yet harsh it seemed to deem amiss 

Of brow so young and smooth as this. 

His was the subtle look and sly 

That, spying all, seems nought to spy; 430 

Bound all the group his glances stole. 

Unmarked themselves, to mark the whole. 

Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look. 

Nor could the eye of Redmond brook. 

To the suspicious or the old 

Subtle and dangerous and bold 

Had seemed this self-invited guest; 

But young our lovers, — and the rest, 

Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear 

At parting of their Mistress dear, 440 

Tear-blinded to the castle-hall 

Came as to bear her funeral pall. 

XVII 

All that expression base was gone 

When waked the guest his minstrel tone; 

It fled at inspiration's call. 

As erst the demon fled from Saul. 

More noble glance he cast around. 

More free-drawn breath inspired the sound, 

His pulse beat bolder and more high 

In all the pride of minstrelsy ! 450 

Alas ! too soon that pride was o'er. 

Sunk with the lay that bade it soar ! 

His soul resumed with habit's chain 

Its vices wild and follies vain. 

And gave the talent with him born 

To be a common curse and scorn. 

Such was the youth whom Rokeby's maid 

With condescending kindness prayed 

Here to renew the strains she loved, 

At distance heard and well approved. 46c 



XVIII 

SONG 

THE HARP 

I was a wild and wayward boy, 

My childhood scorned each childish toy; 



268 



ROKEBY 



Retired from all, reserved and coy, 

To musing prone, 
I wooed my solitary joy, 

My Harp alone. 

My youth with bold ambition's mood 
Despised the humble stream and wood 
Where my poor father's cottage stood, 

To fame unknown ; — 470 

What should my soaring views make good ? 

My Harp alone ! 

Love came with all his frantic fire, 
And wild romance of vain desire : 
The baron's daughter heard my lyre 

And praised the tone ; — 
What could presumptuous hope inspire ? 

My Harp alone ! 

At manhood's touch the bubble burst. 
And manhood's pride the vision curst, 480 
And all that had my folly nursed 

Love's sway to own; 
Yet spared the spell that lulled me first, 

My Harp alone ! 

Woe came with war, and want with woe. 
And it was mine to undergo 
Each outrage of the rebel foe: — 

Can aught atone 
My fields laid waste, my cot laid low ? 

My Harp alone ! 490 

Ambition's dreams I 've seen depart, 
Have rued of penury the smart. 
Have felt of love the venomed dart. 

When hope was flown; 
Yet rests one solace to my heart, — 

My Harp alone ! 

Then over mountain, moor, and hill. 
My faithful Harp, I '11 bear thee still; 
And when this life of want and ill 

Is wellnigh gone, 500 

Thy strings mine elegy sliall thrill. 

My Harp alone ! 

XIX 

* A pleasing lay ! ' Matilda said; 

But Harpool shook his old gray head. 

And took his baton and his torch 

To seek his guard-room in the porch. 

Edmund observed — with sudden change 

Among the strings his fingers range, 

Until they waked a bolder glee 



Of military melody; 510 

Then paused amid the martial sound, 
And looked with well - feigned feai^ 

around; — 
* None to this noble house belong,' 
He said, * that would a minstrel wrong 
Whose fate has been through good and ill ^ 
To love his Royal Master still, 
And with your honored leave would fain 
Rejoice you with a royal strain.' 
Then, as assured by sign and look. 
The warlike tone again he took; 520 

And Harpool stopped and turned to hear 
A ditty of the Cavalier. 

XX 

SONG 
THE CAVALIER 

While the dawn on the mountain was misty 

and gray. 
My true love has mounted his steed and 

away. 
Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er 

down; 
Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights 

for the Crown ! 

He has doffed the silk doublet the breast- 
plate to bear. 

He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long- 
flowing hair. 

From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword 
hangs down, — 

Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights 
for the Crown ! 530 

For the rights of fair England that broad- 
sword he draws, 

Her King is his leader, her Church is his 
cause; 

His watchword is honor, his pay is re- 
nown, — 

God strike with the gallant that strikes for 
the Crown ! 

They may boast of their Fairfax, their 
Waller, and all 

The roundlieaded rebels of Westminster 
Hall; 

But tell these bold traitors of London's 
proud town. 

That the spears of the North have encir- 
cled the Crown. 



CANTO FIFTH 



269 



There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of 

their foes; 
There 's Erin's high Ormond and Scotland's 

Montrose ! 540 

Would you match the base Skippon, and 

Massey, and Brown, 
With the Barons of England that fight for 

the Crown ? 

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cava- 
lier! 

Be his banner unconquered, resistless his 
spear. 

Till in peace and in triumph his toils he 
may drown, 

In a pledge to fair England, her Church, 
and her Crown. 

XXI 
* Alas ! ' Matilda said, * that strain, 
Good harper, now is heard in vain ! 
The time has been at such a sound 
When Rokeby's vassals gathered round, 550 
An hundred manly hearts would bound; 
But now, the stirring verse we hear 
Like trump in dying soldier's ear ! 
Listless and sad the notes we own. 
The power to answer them is flown. 
Yet not without his meet applause 
Be he that sings the rightful cause, 
Even when the crisis of its fate 
To human eye seems desperate. 
While Rokeby*s heir such power retains, 560 
Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains: — 
And lend thy harp ; I fain would try 
If my poor skill can aught supply, 
Ere yet I leave my fathers' hall. 
To mourn the cause in which we fall.' 

XXII 
The harper with a downcast look 
And trembling hand her bounty took. 
As yet the conscious pride of art 
Had steeled him in his treacherous part; 
A powerful spring of force unguessed 570 
That hath each gentler mood suppressed. 
And reigned in many a human breast, 
From his that plans the red campaign 
To his that wastes the woodland reign. 
The failing wing, the blood-shot eye 
The sportsman marks with apathy, 
Each feeling of his victim's ill 
Drowned in his own successful skill. 
The veteran, too, who now no more 
Aspires to head the battle's roar, 580 



Loves still the triumph of his art, 

And traces on the pencilled chart 

Some stern invader's destined way 

Through blood and ruin to his prey; 

Patriots to death, and towns to flame 

He dooms, to raise another's name. 

And shares the guilt, though not the fame. 

What pays him for his span of time 

Spent in premeditating crime ? 

What against pity arms his heart ? 590 

It is the conscious pride of art. 

XXIII 

But principles in Edmund's mind 
Were baseless, vague, and undefined. 
His soul, like bark with rudder lost, 
On passion's changeful tide was tost; 
Nor vice nor virtue had the power 
Beyond the impression of the hour; 
And O, when passion rules, how rare 
The hours that fall to Virtue's share ! 
Yet now she roused her — for the pride 600 
That lack of sterner guilt supplied 
Could scarce support him when arose 
Th^ lay that mourned Matilda's woes. 

SONG 
THE FAREWELL 

* The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear, 

They mingle with the song: 
Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear, 

I must not hear them long. 
From every loved and native haunt 

The native heir must stray. 
And, like a ghost whom sunbeams daunt, 6ia 

Must part before the day. 

* Soon from the halls my fathers reared. 

Their scutcheons may descend, 
A line so long beloved and feared 

May soon obscurely end. 
No longer here Matilda's tone 

Shall bid these echoes swell; 
Yet shall they hear her proudly own 

The cause in which we fell.' 



The lady paused, and then again 
Resumed the lay in loftier strain. — 



620 



XXIV 



* Let our halls and towers decay, 
Be our name and line forgot, 
Lands and manors pass away, — 
We but share our monarch's lot. 



270 



ROKEBY 



If no more our annals show 
Battles won and banners taken, 

Still in death, defeat, and woe, 
Ours be loyalty unshaken ! 

* Constant still in danger's hour, 630 

Princes owned our fathers' aid; 
Lands and honors, wealth and power. 

Well their loyalty repaid. 
Perish wealth and power and pride, 

Mortal boons by mortals given ! 
But let constancy abide. 

Constancy 's the gift of Heaven.' 

XXV 

While thus Matilda's lay was heard, 

A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirred. 

In peasant life he might have known 640 

As fair a face, as sweet a tone; 

But village notes could ne'er supply 

That rich and varied melody, 

And ne'er in cottage maid was seen 

The easy dignity of mien, 

Claiming respect yet waiving state, 

That marks the daughters of the great. 

Yet not perchance had these alone 

His scheme of purposed guilt overthrown; 

But while her energy of mind 650 

Superior rose to griefs combined. 

Lending its kindling to her eye. 

Giving her form new majesty, — 

To Edmund's thought Matilda seemed 

The very object he had dreamed 

When, long ere guilt his soul had known, 

In Winston bowers he mused alone. 

Taxing his fancy to combine 

The face, the air, the voice divine, 

Of princess fair by cruel fate 660 

Reft of her honors, power, and state. 

Till to her rightful realm restored 

By destined hero's conquering sword. 

XXVI 

* Such was my vision ! * Edmund thought; 

* And have I then the ruin wrought 
Of such a maid that fancy ne'er 

In fairest vision formed her peer ? 

Was it my hand that could unclose 

The postern to her ruthless foes ? 

Foes lost to honor, law, and faith, 670 

Their kindest mercy sudden death ! 

Have I done this ? I, who have swore 

That if the globe such angel bore, 

I would have traced its circle broad 

To kiss the ground on which she trode ! — 



And now — O, would that earth would rive 

And close upon me while alive ! — 

Is there no hope ? — is all then lost ? — 

Bertram 's already on his post ! 

Even now beside the hall's arched door 680 

I saw his shadow cross the floor ! 

He was to wait my signal strain — 

A little respite thus we gain: 

By what I heard the menials say. 

Young Wycliffe's troop are on their way — 

Alarm precipitates the crime ! 

My harp must wear away the time.' — 

And then in accents faint and low 

He faltered forth a tale of woe. 689 



I 



XXVII 
BALLAD 

* " And whither would you lead me then ? " 

Quoth the friar of orders gray; 
And the ruffians twain replied again, 
" By a dying woman to pray." — 

* " I see," he said, " a lovely sight, 

A sight bodes little harm, 
A lady as a lily bright 

With an infant on her arm." — 

* " Then do thine office, friar gray, 

And see thou shrive her free ! 
Else shall the sprite that parts to-night 700 
Fling all its guilt on thee. 

* " Let mass be said and trentals read 

When thou 'rt to convent gone. 
And bid the bell of Saint Benedict 
Toll out its deepest tone." 

* The shrift is done, the friar is gone, 

Blindfolded as he came — 
Next morning all in Littlecot Hall 
Were weeping for their dame. 

* Wild Darrell is an altered man, 71c 

The village crones can tell ; 
He looks pale as clay and strives to pray, 
If he hears the convent bell. 

* If prince or peer cross Darrell's way. 

He '11 beard him in his pride — - 
If he meet a friar of orders gray, 
He droops and turns aside.' 

XXVIII 

* Harper ! methinks thy magic lays,' 
Matilda said, * can goblins raise I 



t 



CANTO FIFTH 



271 



Wellnigh my fancy can discern 720 

Near the dark porch a visage stern; 
E'en now in yonder shadowy nook 
I see it ! — Redmond, Wilfrid, look ! — 
A human form distinct and clear — 
God, for thy mercy ! — It draws near ! ' 
She saw too true. Stride after stride, 
The centre of that chamber wide 
Fierce Bertram gained; then made a 

stand 
And, proudly waving with his hand, 729 
Thundered — * Be still, upon your lives ! — 
He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives.' 
Behind their chief the robber crew. 
Forth from the darkened portal drew 
In silence — save that echo dread 
Returned their heavy measured tread. 
The lamp's uncertain lustre gave 
Their arms to gleam, their plumes to wave; 
File after file in order pass. 
Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass. 
Then, halting at their leader's sign, 740 
At once they formed and curved their line, 
Hemming within its crescent drear 
Their victims like a herd of deer. 
Another sign, and to the aim 
Levelled at once their muskets came, 
As waiting but their chieftain's word 
To make their fatal volley heard. 

XXIX 

Back in a heap the menials drew; 

Yet, even in mortal terror true. 

Their pale and startled group oppose 750 

Between Matilda and the foes. 

* O, haste thee, Wilfrid ! ' Redmond cried ; 
' Undo that wicket by thy side ! 

Bear hence Matilda — gain the wood — 
The pass may be awhile made good — 
Thy band ere this must sure be nigh — 
O speak not — dally not — but fly ! ' 
While yet the crowd their motions hide. 
Through the low wicket door they glide. 
Through vaulted passages they wind, 760 
In Gothic intricacy twined ; 
Wilfrid half led and half he bore 
Matilda to the postern door. 
And safe beneath the forest tree. 
The lady stands at liberty. 
The moonbeams, the fresh gale's caress. 
Renewed suspended consciousness; — 

* Where 's Redmond ? ' eagerly she cries: 

* Thou answer'st not — he dies ! he dies ! 
And thou hast left him all bereft 770 
Of mortal aid — with murderers left ! 



I know it well — he would not yield 
His sword to man — his doom is sealed ! 
For my scorned life, which thou hast 

bought 
At price of his, I thank thee not.' 

XXX 

The unjust reproach, the angry look. 
The heart of Wilfrid could not brook. 

* Lady,' he said, * my band so near. 

In safety thou mayst rest thee here. 779 
For Redmond's death thou shalt not mourn. 
If mine can buy his safe return.' 
He turned away — his heart throbbed high, 
The tear was bursting from his eye; 
The sense of her injustice pressed 
Upon the maid's distracted breast, — 

* Stay, Wilfrid, stay ! all aid is vain ! ' 
He heard but turned him not again ! 
He reaches now the postern door, 
Now enters — and is seen no more. 

XXXI 

With all the agony that e'er 790 

Was gendered 'twixt suspense and fear. 
She watched the line of windows tall 
Whose Gothic lattice lights the Hall, 
Distinguished by the paly red 
The lamps in dim reflection shed. 
While all beside in wan moonlight 
Each grated casement glimmered white. 
No sight of harm, no sound of ill. 
It is a deep and midnight still. 799 

Who looked upon the scene had guessed 
All in the castle were at rest — 
When sudden on the windows shone 
A lightning flash just seen and gone ! 
A shot is heard — again the flame 
Flashed thick and fast — a volley came ! 
Then echoed wildly from within 
Of shout and scream the mingled din, 
And weapon-clash and maddening cry, 
Of those who kill and those who die ! — 
As filled the hall with sulphurous smoke, 
More red, more dark, the death-flash broke. 
And forms were on the lattice cast Sn 

That struck or struggled as they past. 

XXXII 

What sounds upon the midnight wind 
Approach so rapidly behind ? 
It is, it is, the tramp of steeds, 
Matilda hears the sound, she speeds, 
Seizes upon tlie leader's rein — 

* O, haste to aid ere aid be vain ! 



272 



ROKEBY 



Fly to the postern — gain the hall ! ' 820 
From saddle spring the troopers all; 
Their gallant steeds at liberty 
Run wild along the moonlight lea. 
But ere they burst upon the scene 
Full stubborn had the conflict been. 
When Bertram marked Matilda's flight, 
It gave the signal for the fight; 
And Rokeby's veterans, seamed with scars 
Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars, 
Their momentary panic o'er, 830 

Stood to the arms which then they bore — 
For they were weaponed and prepared 
Their mistress on her way to guard. 
Then cheered them to the fight O'Neale, 
Then pealed the shot, and clashed the 

steel; 
The war-smoke soon with sable breath 
Darkened the scene of blood and death, 
While on the few defenders close 
The bandits with redoubled blows. 
And, twice driven back, yet fierce and 

fell 840 

Renew the charge with frantic yell. 

XXXIII 

Wilfrid has fallen — but o'er him stood 
Young Redmond soiled with smoke and 

blood. 
Cheering his mates with heart and hand 
Still to make good their desperate stand: 
* Up, comrades, up ! In Rokeby halls 
Ne'er be it said our courage falls. 
What ! faint ye for their savage cry, 
Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye ? 
These rafters have returned a shout 850 
As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout, 
As thick a smoke these hearths have given 
At Hallow-tide or Christmas-even. 
Stand to it yet ! renew the fight 
For Rokeby's and Matilda's right ! 
These slaves ! they dare not hand to hand 
Bide buffet from a true man's brand.' 
Impetuous, active, fierce, and young. 
Upon the advancing foes he sprung. 
Woe to the wretch at whom is bent 860 

His brandished falchion's sheer descent ! 
Backward they scattered as he came. 
Like wolves before the levin flame. 
When, mid their howling conclave driven. 
Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven. 
Bertram rushed on — but Harpool clasped 
His knees, although in death ho gasped. 
His falling corpse before him flung. 
And round the trammelled ruffian clung. 



ssP 



Just then the soldiers filled the dome, 870 
And shouting charged the felons home 
So fiercely that in panic dread 
They broke, they yielded, fell, or fled, 
Bertram's stern voice they heed no more, 
Though heard above the battle's roar; 
While, trampling down the dying man. 
He strove with volleyed threat and ban 
In scorn of odds, in fate's despite, 
To rally up the desperate fight. 

XXXIV 

Soon murkier clouds the hall enfold 
Than e'er from battle-thunders rolled. 
So dense the combatants scarce know 
To aim or to avoid the blow. 
Smothering and blindfold grows the 

fight — 
But soon shall dawn a dismal light ! 
Mid cries and clashing arms there came 
The hollow sound of rushing flame; 
New horrors on the tumult dire 
Arise — the castle is on fire ! 
Doubtful if chance had cast the brand 890 
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand, 
Matilda saw — for frequent broke 
From the dim casements gusts of smoke, 
Yon tower, which late so clear defined 
On the fair hemisphere reclined 
That, pencilled on its azure pure, 
The eye could count each embrasure. 
Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud, 
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud; 
Till, from each loop-hole flashing light, 90c 
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright, 
And, gathering to united glare, 
Streams high into the midnight air; 
A dismal beacon, far and wide 
That wakened Greta's slumbering side. 
Soon all beneath, through gallery long 
And pendent arch, the fire flashed strong, 
Snatching whatever could maintain. 
Raise, or extend its furious reign; 
Startling with closer cause of dread 91c 
The females who the conflict fled, 
And now rushed forth upon the plain, 
Filling the air with clamors vain. 

XXXV 

But ceased not yet the hall within 
The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din, 
Till bursting lattices give proof 
The flames have caught the raftered roof 
What ! wait they till its beams amain 
Crash on the slayers and the slain? 



I 



CANTO SIXTH 



273 



The alarm is caught — the drawbridge 
falls, 920 

The warriors hurry from the walls, 
But by the conflagration's light 
Upon the lawn renew the fight. 
Each straggling felon down was hewed, 
Not one could gain the sheltering wood; 
But forth the affrighted harper sprung, 
And to Matilda's robe he clung. 
Her shriek, entreaty, and command 
Stopped the pursuer's lifted hand. 
Denzil and he alive were ta'en; 930 

The rest save Bertram all are slain. 

XXXVI 

And where is Bertram ? — Soaring high. 
The general flame ascends the sky; 
In gathered group the soldiers gaze 
Upon the broad and roaring blaze. 
When, like infernal demon, sent 
Bed from his penal element. 
To plague and to pollute the air, 
His face all gore, on fire his hair. 
Forth from the central mass of smoke 940 
The giant form of Bertram broke ! 
His brandished sword on high he rears, 
Then plunged among opposing spears; 
Bound his left arm his mantle trussed, 
Beceived and foiled three lances' thrust; 
Nor these his headlong course withstood, 
Like reeds he snapped the tough ash wood. 
In vain his foes around him clung; 
With matchless force aside he flung 
Their boldest, — as the bull at bay 950 

Tosses the ban-dogs from his way, 
Through forty foes his path he made, 
And safely gained the forest glade. 

XXXVII 

Scarce was this final conflict o'er 
When from the postern Bedmond bore 
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft, 
Had in the fatal hall been left. 
Deserted there by all his train; 
But Bedmond saw and turned again. 
Beneath an oak he laid him down 960 

That in the blaze gleamed ruddy brown. 
And then his mantle's clasp undid; 
Matilda held his drooping head, 
Till, given to breathe the freer air, 
Beturning life repaid their care. 
He gazed on them with heavy sigh, — 
* I could have wished even thus to die ! ' 
No more he said, — for now with speed 
Each trooper had regained his steed ; 



The ready palfreys stood arrayed 970 

For Bedmond and for Bokeby's maid; 
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, 
One leads his charger by the rein. 
But oft Matilda looked behind. 
As up the vale of Tees they wind, 
Where far the mansion of her sires 
Beaconed the dale with midnight fires. 
In gloomy arch above them spread, 
The clouded heaven lowered bloody red; 
Beneath in sombre light the flood " 980 

Appeared to roll in waves of blood. 
Then one by one was heard to fall 
The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall. 
Each rushing down with thunder sound 
A space the conflagration drowned; 
Till gathering strength again it rose, 
Announced its triumph in its close, 
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er, 
Then sunk — and Bokeby was no more ! 



CANTO SIXTH 



The summer sun, whose early power 

Was wont to gild Matilda's bower 

And rouse her with his matin ray 

Her duteous orisons to pay, 

That morning sun has three times seen 

The flowers unfold on Bokeby green, 

But sees no more the slumbers fly 

From fair Matilda's hazel eye; 

That morning sun has three times broke 

On Bokeby's glades of elm and oak, 10 

But, rising from their sylvan screen, 

Marks no gray turrets glance between. 

A shapeless mass lie keep and tower, 

That, hissing to the morning shower, 

Can but with smouldering vapor pay 

The early smile of summer day. 

The peasant, to his labor bound. 

Pauses to view the blackened mound, 

Striving amid the ruined space 

Each well-remembered spot to trace. 20 

That length of frail and fire-scorched wall 

Once screened the hospitable hall; 

When yonder broken arch was whole, 

'T was there was dealt the weekly dole ; 

And where yon tottering columns nod 

The chapel sent the hymn to God. 

So flits the world's uncertain span ! 

Nor zeal for God nor love for man 

Gives mortal monuments a date 

Beyond the power of Time and Fate. 30 



274 



ROKEBY 



The towers must share the builder's doom; 
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb: 
But better boon benignant Heaven 
To Faith and Charity has given, 
And bids the Christian hope sublime 
Transcend the bounds of Fate and Time. 



Now the third night of summer came 
Since that which witnessed Rokeby's flame. 
On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake 
The owlet's homilies awake, 40 

The bittern screamed from rush and flag, 
The raven slumbered on his crag. 
Forth from his den the otter drew, — 
Grayling and trout their tyrant knew, 
As between reed and sedge he peers, 
With fierce round snout and sharpened 

ears. 
Or prowling by the moonbeam cool 
Watches the stream or swims the pool; — 
Perched on his wonted eyrie high, 
Sleep sealed the tercelet's wearied eye, 50 
That all the day had watched so well 
The cushat dart across the dell. 
In dubious beam reflected shone 
That lofty cliff of pale gray stone 
Beside whose base the secret cave 
To rapine late a refuge gave. 
The crag's wild crest of copse and yew 
On Greta's breast dark shadows threw. 
Shadows that met or shunned the sight 
With every change of fitful light, 60 

As hope and fear alternate chase 
Our course through life's uncertain race. 

Ill 
Gliding by crag and copsewood green, 
A solitary form was seen 
To trace with stealthy pace the wold. 
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold. 
And pauses oft, and cowers dismayed 
At every breath that stirs the shade. 
He passes now the ivy bush, — 
The owl has seen him and is hush; 70 

He passes now the doddered oak, — 
He heard the startled raven croak; 
Lower and lower he descends. 
Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends; 
The otter hears him tread the shore, 
And dives and is beheld no more; 
And by the cliff of pale gray stone 
The midnight wanderer stands alone. 
Methinks that by tlie moon we trace 
A well-remembered form and face f 80 



That stripling shape, that cheek so pale, 

Combine to tell a rueful tale. 

Of powers misused, of passion's force, 

Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse ! 

'T is Edmund's eye at every sound 

That flings that guilty glance around; 

'T is Edmund's trembling haste divides 

The brushwood that the cavern hides; 

And when its narrow porch lies bare 

'T is Edmund's form that enters there. 90 

IV 

His flint and steel have sparkled bright, 
A lamp hath lent the cavern light. 
Fearful and quick his eye surveys 
Each angle of the gloomy maze. 
Since last he left that stern abode, 
It seemed as none its floor had trode; 
Untouched appeared the various spoil, 
The purchase of his comrades' toil; 
Masks and disguises grimed with mud. 
Arms broken and defiled with blood, 100 
And all the nameless tools that aid 
Night-felons in their lawless trade. 
Upon the gloomy walls were hung 
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung. 
Still on the sordid board appear 
The relics of the noontide cheer: 
Flagons and emptied flasks were there, 
And bench o'erthrown and shattered chair; 
And all around the semblance showed. 
As when the final revel glowed, no 

When the red sun was setting fast 
And parting pledge Guy Denzil past. 
* To Rokeby treasure - vaults ! ' they 

quaffed. 
And shouted loud and wildly laughed, 
Poured maddening from the rocky door. 
And parted — to return no more ! 
They found in Rokeby vaults their doom, — 
A bloody death, a burning tomb ! 



There his own peasant dress he spies, 
Doffed to assume that quaint disguise, 1 
And shuddering thought upon his glee 
When pranked in garb of minstrelsy. 
* O, be the fatal art accurst,' 
He cried, * that moved my folly first, 
Till, bribed by bandits' base applause, 
I burst through God's and Nature's laws 
Three summer days are scantly past 
Since I have trod this cavern last, 
A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err ■ 
But O, as yet no murderer ! 



ofl 



ij 



CANTO SIXTH 



275 



Even now I list my comrades' cheer, 

That general laugh is in mine ear 

Which raised my pulse and steeled my 

heart, 
As I rehearsed my treacherous part — 
And would that all since then could seem 
The phantom of a fever's dream ! 
But fatal memory notes too well 
The horrors of the dying yell 
From my despairing mates that broke 
When flashed the fire and rolled the 

smoke, 140 

When the avengers shouting came 
And hemmed us 'tw.ixt the sword and 

flame ! 
My frantic flight — the lifted brand — 
That angel's interposing hand ! — 
If for my life from slaughter freed 
I yet could pay some grateful meed ! 
Perchance this object of my quest 
May aid ' — he turned nor spoke the rest. 

VI 

Due northward from the rugged hearth 
With paces five he meets the earth, 150 

Then toiled with mattock to explore 
The entrails of the cavern floor. 
Nor paused till deep beneath the ground 
His search a small steel casket found. 
Just as he stooped to loose its hasp 
His shoulder felt a giant grasp ; 
He started and looked up aghast. 
Then shrieked ! — 'T was Bertram held 
him fast. 

* Fear not ! ' he said ; but who could 

hear 
That deep stern voice and cease to 
fear ? 160 

* Fear not ! — By heaven, he shakes as much 
As partridge in the falcon's clutch : ' 

He raised him and unloosed his hold, 
While from the opening casket rolled 
A chain and reliquaire of gold. 
Bertram beheld it with surprise, 
Gazed on its fashion and device. 
Then, cheering Edmund as he could. 
Somewhat he smoothed his rugged mood. 
For still the youth's half-lifted eye 170 

Quivered with terror's agony. 
And sidelong glanced as to explore 
In meditated flight the door. 

* Sit,' Bertram said, * from danger free: 
Thou canst not and thou shalt not flee. 

i Chance brings me hither; hill and plain 
I 've sought for refuge-place in vain. 



And tell me now, thou aguish boy, 

What makest thou here ? what means this 

. toy? 
Denzil and thou, I marked, were ta'en; iSo 
What lucky chance unbound your chain ? 
I deemed, long since on Baliol's tower. 
Your heads were warped with sun and 

shower. 
Tell me the whole — and mark ! nought 

e'er 
Chafes me like falsehood or like fear.' 
Gathering his courage to his aid 
But trembling still, the youth obeyed. 

VII 

* Denzil and I two nights passed o'er 
In fetters on the dungeon floor. 

A guest the third sad morrow brought; 19a 
Our hold, dark Oswald Wycliffe sought. 
And eyed my comrade long askance 
With fixed and penetrating glance. 
"Guy Denzil art thou called ?" — « The 

same." 
" At Court who served wild Buckinghame; 
Thence banished, won a keeper's place. 
So Yilliers willed, in Marwood-chase ; 
That lost — I need not tell thee why — 
Thou madest thy wit thy wants supply, 
Then fought for Rokeby: — have I 
guessed 200 

My prisoner right ? " — " At thy be- 
hest." — 
He paused awhile, and then went on 
With low and confidential tone ; — 
Me, as I judge, not then he saw 
Close nestled in my couch of straw. — 
" List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great 
Have frequent need of what they hate; 
Hence, in their favor oft we see 
Unscrupled, useful men like thee. 
Were I disposed to bid thee live, 210 

What pledge of faith hast thou to give ? " 

VIII 

* The ready fiend who never yet 
Hath failed to sharpen Denzil's wit 
Prompted his lie — ** His only child 
Should rest his pledge." — The baron 

smiled. 
And turned to me — " Thou art his son ? " 
I bowed — our fetters were undone, 
And we were led to hear apart 
A dreadful lesson of his art. 
Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son, 220 

Had fair Matilda's favor won; 



276 



ROKEBY 



And long since had their union been 

But for lier fatlier's bigot spleen, 

Whose brute and blindfold party-rage 

Would, force perforce, her hand engage 

To a base kern of Irish earth. 

Unknown his lineage and his birth, 

Save that a dying ruffian bore 

The infant brat to Rokeby door. 

Gentle restraint, he said, would lead 230 

Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed; 

But fair occasion he must find 

For such restraint well meant and kind, 

The knight being rendered to his charge 

But as a prisoner at large. 

IX 

* He schooled us in a well-forged tale 
Of scheme the castle walls to scale, 
To which was leagued each Cavalier 
That dwells upon the Tyne and Wear, 
That Rokeby, his parole forgot, 240 
Had dealt with us to aid the plot. 

Such was the charge which DenziPs zeal 

Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale 

Proffered as witness to make good. 

Even though the forfeit were their blood. 

I scrupled until o'er and o'er 

His prisoners' safety Wycliffe swore ; 

And then — alas ! what needs there more ? 

I knew I should not live to say 

The proffer I refused that day; 250 

Ashamed to live, yet loath to die, 

I soiled me with their infamy ! ' 

* Poor youth ! ' said Bertram, * wavering 

still. 
Unfit alike for good or ill ! 
But what fell next ? ' — * Soon as at large 
Was scrolled and signed our fatal charge, 
There never yet on tragic stage 
Was seen so well a painted rage 
As Oswald's showed ! With loud alarm 
He called his garrison to arm; 260 

From tower to tower, from post to post, 
He hurried as if all were lost; 
Consigned to dungeon and to chain 
The good old knight and all his train; 
Warned each suspected Cavalier 
Within his limits to appear 
To-morrow at the hour of noon 
In the high church of Eglistone.' — 



< Of Eglistone ! — Even now I passed,* 
Said Bertram, * as the night closed fast; 270 



i 



Torches and cressets gleamed around, 
I heard the saw and hammer sound. 
And I could mark they toiled to raise 
A scaffold, hung with sable baize. 
Which the grim headsman's scene dii 

played, 
Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid. 
Some evil deed will there be done 
Unless Matilda wed his son; — 
She loves him not — 't is shrewdly guessed 
That Redmond rules the damsel's breast. 280 
This is a turn of Oswald's skill; 
But I may meet, and foil him still ! — 
How camest thou to thy freedom ? ' — 

* There 
Lies mystery more dark and rare. 
In midst of Wy cliff e's well-feigned rage, 
A scroll was offered by a page, 
Who told a muffled horseman late 
Had left it at the Castle-gate. 
He broke the seal — his cheek showed 

change, 
Sudden, portentous, wild, and strange; 290 
The mimic passion of his eye 
Was turned to actual agony; 
His hand like summer sapling shook, 
Terror and guilt were in his look. 
Denzil he judged in time of need 
Fit counsellor for evil deed ; 
And thus apart his counsel broke. 
While with a ghastly smile he spoke: 

XI 

* " As in the pageants of the stage 

The dead awake in this wild age, 300 

Mortham — whom all men deemed decreed 

In his own deadly snare to bleed. 

Slain by a bravo whom o'er sea 

He trained to aid in murdering me, — 

Mortham has 'scaped ! The coward shot 

The steed but harmed the rider not." * 

Here with an execration fell 

Bertram leaped up and jiaced the cell: — 

* Thine own gray head or bosom dark,' 

He muttered, * may be surer mark ! ' 310 
Then sat and signed to Edmund, pale 
With terror, to resume his tale. 

* Wycliffe went on: — "Mark with what 

flights 
Of wildered reverie he writes: — 

THE LETTER 

* " Ruler of Mortham's destiny ! 
Though dead, thy victim lives to thee. 



CANTO SIXTH 



277 



Once had he all that binds to life, 

A lovely child, a lovelier wife ; 

Wealth, fame, and friendship were his 

own — 
Thou gavest the word and they are flown. 
Mark how he pays thee: to thy hand 321 
He yields his honors and his land. 
One boon premised; — restore his child ! 
And, from his native land exiled, 
Mortham no more returns to claim 
His lands, his honors, or his name; 
Refuse him this and from the slain 
Thou shalt see Mortham rise again." — 

XII 

* This billet while the baron read, 

His faltering accents showed his dread; 330 

He pressed his forehead with his palm. 

Then took a scornful tone and calm; 

" Wild as the winds, as billows wild ! 

What wot I of his spouse or child ? 

Hither he brought a joyous dame. 

Unknown her lineage or her name : 

Her in some frantic fit he slew; 

The nurse and child in fear withdrew. 

Heaven be my witness, wist I where 

To find this youth, my kinsman's heir, 340 

Unguerdoned I would give with joy 

The father's arms to fold his boy, 

And Mortham's lands and towers resign 

To the just heirs of Mortham's line." 

Thou know'st that scarcely e'en his fear 

Suppresses Denzil's cynic sneer; — 

" Then happy is thy vassal's part," 

He said, " to ease his patron's heart ! 

In thine own jailer's watchful care 

Lies Mortham's just and rightful heir; 350 

Thy generous wish is fully won, — 

Redmond O'Neale is Mortham's son." — 

XIII 

* Up starting with a frenzied look. 
His clenched hand the baron shook: 

" Is Hell at work ? or dost thou rave, 
Or darest thou palter with me, slave ! 
Perchance thou wot'st not, Barnard's tow- 
ers 
Have racks of strange and ghastly pow- 
ers." 
Denzil, who well his safety knew. 
Firmly rejoined, " I tell thee true. 360 

Thy racks could give thee but to know 
The proofs which I, untortured, show. 
It chanced upon a winter night 
When early snow made Stanmore white, 



That very night when first of all 

Redmond O'Neale saw Rokeby-hall, 

It was my goodly lot to gain 

A reliquary and a chain. 

Twisted and chased of massive gold. 

Demand not how the prize I hold ! 37c 

It was not given nor lent nor sold. 

Gilt tablets to the chain were hung 

With letters in the Irish tongue. 

I hid my spoil, for there was need 

That I should leave the land with speed, 

Nor then I deemed it safe to bear 

On mine own person gems so rare. 

Small heed I of the tablets took. 

But since have spelled them by the book 

When some sojourn in Erin's land 380 

Of their wild speech had given command. 

But darkling was the sense; the phrase 

And language those of other days, 

Involved of purpose, as to foil 

An interloper's prying toil. 

The words but not the sense I knew, 

Till fortune gave the guiding clue. 

XIV 

* " Three days since, was that clue re- 
vealed 
In Thorsgill as I lay concealed, 
And heard at full when Rokeby's maid 390 
Her uncle's history displayed; 
And now I can interpret well 
Each syllable the tablets tell. 
Mark, then: fair Edith was the joy 
Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy; 
But from her sire and country fled 
In secret Mortham's lord to wed. 
O'Neale, his first resentment o'er, 
Despatched his son to Greta's shore, 399 
Enjoining he should make him known — 
Until his farther will were shown — 
To Edith, but to her alone. 
What of their ill-starred meeting fell 
Lord Wy cliff e knows, and none so well. 

XV 

* " O'Neale it was who in despair 
Robbed Mortham of his infant heir; 
He bred him in their nurture wild. 
And called him murdered Connel's child. 
Soon died the nurse; the clan believed 409 
What from their chieftain they received. 
His purpose was that ne'er again 
The boy should cross the Irish main. 
But, like his mountain sires, enjoy 
The woods and wastes of Clandeboy. 



278 



ROKEBY 



Then on the land wild troubles came, 
And stronger chieftains urged a claim, 
And wrested from the old man's hands 
His native towers, his father's lands. 
Unable then amid the strife 
To guard young Redmond's rights or 

life, 42 3 

Late and reluctant he restores 
The infant to his native shores. 
With goodly gifts and letters stored, 
With many a deep conjuring word. 
To Mortham and to Rokeby's lord. 
Nought knew the clod of Irish earth. 
Who was the guide, of Redmond's birth. 
But deemed his chief's commands were 

laid 
On both, by both to be obeyed. 
How he was wounded by the way 430 

I need not, and I list not say." — 

XVI 

* " A wondrous tale ! and, grant it true, 
What," Wy cliff e answered, " might I do ? 
Heaven knows, as willingly as now 
I raise the bonnet from my brow, 
Would I my kinsman's manors fair 
Restore to Mortham or his heir; 
But Mortham is distraught — O'Neale 
Has drawn for tyranny his steel, 
Malignant to our rightful cause 440 

And trained in Rome's delusive laws. 
Hark thee apart ! " They whispered long. 
Till Denzil's voice grew bold and strong: 
" My proofs ! I never will," he said, 
" Show mortal man where they are laid. 
Nor hope discovery to foreclose 
By giving me to feed the crows; 
For I have mates at large who know 
Where I am wont such toys to stow. 
Free me from peril and from band, 450 

These tablets are at thy command ; 
Nor were it hard to form some train. 
To wile old Mortham o'er the main. 
Then, lunatic's nor papist's hand 
Should wrest from thine the goodly land." 
" I like thy wit," said Wy cliff e, '' well; 
But here in hostage shalt thou dwell. 
Thy son, unless my purpose err. 
May prove the trustier messenger. 
A scroll to Mortham shall he bear 460 

From me, and fetch these tokens rare. 
Gold shalt thou have, and that good store. 
And freedom, his commission o'er; 
But if his faith should chance to fail, 
The gibbet frees thee from the jail." 



XVII 

* Meshed in the net himself had twined, 
What subterfuge could Denzil find ? 
He told me with reluctant sigh 

That hidden here the tokens lie, 
Conjured my swift return and aid, 470 

By all he scoffed and disobeyed, 
And looked as if the noose were tied 
And I the priest who left his side. 
This scroll for Mortham Wycliffe gave, 
Whom I must seek by Greta's wave, 
Or in the hut where chief he hides. 
Where Thorsgill's forester resides. — 
Thence chanced it, wandering in the glade, 
That he descried our ambuscade. — 
I was dismissed as evening fell, 480 

And reached but now this rocky cell.' 

* Give Oswald's letter.' — Bertram read. 
And tore it fiercely shred by shred: — 

* All lies and villany ! to blind 

His noble kinsman's generous mind. 

And train him on from day to day. 

Till he can take his life away. — 

And now, declare thy purpose, youth. 

Nor dare to answer, save the truth; 

If aught I mark of Denzil's art, 490 

I '11 tear the secret from thy heart ! * — 

XVIII 

* It needs not. I renounce,' he said, 

* My tutor and his deadly trade. 
Fixed was my purpose to declare 
To Mortham, Redmond is his heir; 
To tell him in what risk he stands. 
And yield these tokens to his hands. 
Fixed was my purpose to atone. 
Far as I may, the evil done; 

And fixed it rests — if I survive 500 

This night, and leave this cave alive.* — ■ 

* And Denzil ? ' — * Let them ply the rack. 
Even till his joints and sinews crack ! 

If Oswald tear him limb from limb. 
What ruth can Denzil claim from him 
Whose thoughtless youth he led astray 
And damned to this unhallowed way ? 
He schooled me, faith and vows were vain ; 
Now let my master reap his gain.' — 509 

* True,' answered Bertram, * 't is his meed; 
There 's retribution in the deed. 

But thou — thou art not for our course, 
Hast fear, hast pity, hast remorse ; 
And he with us the gale who braves 
Must heave such cargo to the waves, 
Or lag with overloaded prore 
While barks unburdened reach the shore.' 



CANTO SIXTH 



279 



XIX 

He paused and, stretching him at length, 
Seemed to repose his bulky strength. 
Communing with his secret mind, 520 

As half he sat and half reclined, 
One ample hand his forehead pressed, 
And one was dropped across his breast. 
The shaggy eyebrows deeper came 
Above his eyes of swarthy flame; 
His lip of pride awhile f orebore 
The haughty curve till then it wore; 
The unaltered fierceness of his look 
A shade of darkened sadness took, — 
For dark and sad a presage pressed 530 
Resistlessly on Bertram's breast, — 
And when he spoke, his wonted tone, 
So fierce, abrupt, and brief, was gone. 
His voice was steady, low, and deep, 
Like distant waves when breezes sleep; 
And sorrow mixed with Edmund's fear, 
Its low unbroken depth to hear. 

XX 

* Edmund, in thy sad tale I find 

The woe that warped my patron's mind; 

'T would wake the fountains of the eye 540 

In other men, but mine are dry. 

Mortham must never see the fool 

That sold himself base Wycliffe's tool, 

Yet less from thirst of sordid gain 

Than to avenge supposed disdain. 

Say Bertram rues his fault — a word 

Till now from Bertram never heard: 

Say, too, that Mortham's lord he prays 

To think but on their former days; 

On Quariana's beach and rock, 550 

On Cayo's bursting battle-shock. 

On Darien's sands and deadly dew, 

And on the dart Tlatzeca threw; — 

Perchance my patron yet may hear 

More that may grace his comrade's bier. 

My soul hath felt a secret weight, 

A warning of approaching fate : 

A priest had said, " Return, repent ! " 

As well to bid that rock be rent. 

Firm as that flint I face mine end; 560 

My heart may burst but cannot bend. 

XXI 

* The dawning of my youth with awe 
And prophesy the r3alesmen saw; 
For over Redesdale it came, 

As bodeful as their beacon-flame. 
Edmund, thy years were scarcely mine 
When, challenging the Clans of Tyne 



To bring their best my brand to prove, 
O'er Hexham's altar hung my glove; 
But Tynedale, nor in tower nor town, 57a 
Held champion meet to take it down. 
My noontide India may declare; 
Like her fierce sun, I fired the air ! 
Like him, to wood and cave bade fly 
Her natives from mine angry eye. 
Panama's maids shall long look pale 
When Risingham inspires the tale; 
Chili's dark matrons long shall tame 
The froward child with Bertram's name. 
And now, my race of terror run, 580 

Mine be the eve of tropic sun ! 
No pale gradations quench his ray, 
No twilight dews his wrath allay; 
With disk like battle-target red 
He rushes to his burning bed. 
Dyes the wide wave with bloody light, 
Then sinks at once — and all is night. — 

XXII 
' Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly, 
Seek Mortham out, and bid him hie 589 
To Richmond where his troops are laid, 
And lead his force to Redmond's aid. 
Say till he reaches Eglistone 
A friend will watch to guard his son. 
Now, fare -thee -well; for night draws 

on. 
And I would rest me here alone.' 
Despite his ill-dissembled fear. 
There swam in Edmund's eye a tear; 
A tribute to the courage high 
Which stooped not in extremity. 
But strove, irregularly great, 600 

To triumph o'er approaching fate ! 
Bertram beheld the dew-drop start. 
It almost touched his iron heart: 

* I did not think there lived,' he said, 

* One who would tear for Bertram shed.* 
He loosened then his baldric's hold, 

A buckle broad of massive gold ; — 

* Of all the spoil that paid his pains 
But this with Risingham remains; 

And this, dear P]dmund,thou shalt take, 6ic 
And wear it long for Bertram's sake. 
Once more — to Mortham speed amain; 
Farewell ! and turn thee not again.' 

XXIII 

The night has yielded to the morn, 
And far the hours of prime are worn. 
Oswald, who since the dawn of day 
Had cursed his messenger's delay, 



28o 



ROKEBY 



Impatient questioned now his train, 

* Was Denzil's son returned again ? ' 

It chanced there answered of the crew 620 
A menial who young Edmund knew: 
*No son of Denzil this,' he said; 

* A peasant boy from Winston glade, 
For song and minstrelsy renowned 
And knavish pranks the hamlets round.' 

* Not Denzil's son ! — from Winston vale ! — 
Then it was false, that specious tale ; 

Or worse — he hath despatched the youth 

To show to Mortham's lord its truth. 

Fool that I was ! — But 't is too late; — 630 

This is the very turn of fate ! — 

The tale, or true or false, relies 

On Denzil's evidence ! — He dies ! — 

Ho ! Provost Marshal ! instantly 

Lead Denzil to the gallows-tree ! 

Allow him not a parting word; 

Short be the shrift and sure the cord ! 

Then let his gory head appall 

Marauders from the castle- wall. 

Lead forth thy guard, that duty done, 640 

With best despatch to Eglistone. — 

Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight 

Attend me at the castle-gate.' 

XXIV 

* Alas ! ' the old domestic said, 
And shook his venerable head, 

* Alas, my lord ! full ill to-day 

May my young master brook the way ! 
The leech has spoke with grave alarm 
Of unseen hurt, of secret harm. 
Of sorrow lurking at the heart, 650 

That mars and lets his healing art.' 

* Tush ! tell not me ! — Komantic boys 
Pine themselves sick for airy toys, 

I will find cure for Wilfrid soon; 

Bid him for Eglistone be boune. 

And quick ! — I hear the dull death-drum 

Tell Denzil's hour of fate is come.' 

He paused with scornful smile, and then 

Resumed his train of thought agen. 

* Now comes my fortune's crisis near ! 660 
Entreaty boots not — instant fear. 
Nought else, can bend Matilda's pride 

Or win her to be Wilfrid's bride. 
But when she sees the scaffold placed, 
With axe and block and headsman graced. 
And when she deems that to deny 
Dooms Bedmond and her sire to die, 
She must give way. — Then, were the 

line 
Of Eokeby once combined with mine, 



I gain the weather-gage of fate ! 67(1 

If Mortham come, he comes too late, 
While I, allied thus and prepared, 
Bid him defiance to his beard. — 
If she prove stubborn, shall I dare 
To drop the axe ? — Soft ! pause we there. 
Mortham still lives — yon youth may tell 
His tale — and Fairfax loves him well; — 
Else, wherefore should I now delay 
To sweep this Redmond from my way ? — 
But she to piety perforce 680 

Must yield. — Without there ! Sound to 
horse ! ' 

XXV 

'T was bustle in the court below, — 

* Mount, and march forward ! ' Forth they 

go; 

Steeds neigh and trample all around, 
Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets 

sound. — 
Just then was sung his parting hymn; 
And Denzil turned his eyeballs dim. 
And, scarcely conscious what he sees. 
Follows the horsemen down the Tees; 
And scarcely conscious what he hears, 690 
The trumpets tingle in his ears. 
O'er the long bridge they 're sweeping now, 
The van is hid by greenwood bough; 
But ere the rearward had passed o'er 
Guy Denzil heard and saw no more I 
One stroke upon the castle bell 
To Oswald rung his dying knell. 

XXVI 

O, for that pencil, erst profuse 

Of chivalry's emblazoned hues, 

That traced of old in Woodstock bower 700 

The pageant of the Leaf and Flower, 

And bodied forth the tourney high 

Held for the hand of Emily ! 

Then might I paint the tumult broad 

That to the crowded abbey flowed. 

And poured, as with an ocean's sound, 

Into the church's ample bound ! 

Then might I show each varying mien. 

Exulting, woful, or serene; 

Indifference, with his idiot stare, 71a 

And Sympathy, with anxious air; 

Paint the dejected Cavalier, 

Doubtful, disarmed, and sad of cheer; 

And his proud foe, whose formal eye 

Claimed conquest now and mastery ; 

And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal 

Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel, 



CANTO SIXTH 



281 



And loudest shouts when lowest lie 
Exalted worth and station high. 
Yet what may such a wish avail ? 720 

'T is mine to tell an onward tale, 
Hurrying, as best I can, along 
The hearers and the hasty song; — 
Like traveller when approaching home. 
Who sees the shades of evening come, 
And must not now his course delay. 
Or choose the fair but winding way: 
Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend. 
Where o'er his head the wildings bend. 
To bless the breeze that cools his brow 730 
Or snatch a blossom from the bough. 

XXVII 

The reverend pile lay wild and waste, 

Profaned, dishonored, and defaced. 

Through storied lattices no more 

In softened light the sunbeams pour, 

Grilding the Gothic sculpture rich 

Of shrine and monument and niche. 

The civil fury of the time 

Made sport of sacrilegious crime; 

For dark fanaticism rent 740 

A.ltar and screen and ornament, 

A.nd peasant hands the tombs overthrew 

3f Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh. 

A.nd now was seen, unwonted sight, 

[n holy walls a scaffold dight ! 

Where once the priest of grace divine 

Dealt to his flock the mystic sign. 

There stood the block displayed, and there 

The headsman grim his hatchet bare, 

^nd for the word of hope and faith 750 

Resounded loud a doom of death. 

Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was 

heard, 
\.nd echoed thrice the herald's word, 
Dooming, for breach of martial laws 
^nd treason to the Commons' cause. 
The Knight of Rokeby, and O'Neale, 
To stoop their heads to block and steel. 
Che trumpets flourished high and shrill, 
Chen was a silence dead and still ; 
\.nd silent prayers to Heaven were cast, 760 
Vnd stifled sobs were bursting fast, 
Pill from the crowd begun to rise 
d^urmurs of sorrow or surprise, 
Vnd from the distant isles there came 
)eep - muttered threats with Wycliffe's 



XXVIII 
kit Oswald, guarded by his band, 
Powerful in evil, waved his hand. 



And bade sedition's voice be dead. 

On peril of the murmurer's head. 

Then first his glance sought Rokeby's 

Knight, 770 

Who gazed on the tremendous sight 
As calm as if he came a guest 
To kindred baron's feudal feast. 
As calm as if that trumpet-call 
Were summons to the bannered hall; 
Firm in his loyalty he stood. 
And prompt to seal it with his blood. 
With downcast look drew Oswald nigh, — 
He durst not cope with Rokeby's eye ! — 
And said with low and faltering breath, 780 
*Thou know'st the terms of life and 

death.' 
The knight then turned and sternly smiled: 

* The maiden is mine only child. 
Yet shall my blessing leave her head 
If with a traitor's son she wed.' 

Then Redmond spoke : * The life of one 

Might thy malignity atone. 

On me be flung a double guilt ! 

Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be spilt ! ' 

Wycliffe had listened to his suit, 790 

But dread prevailed and he was mute. 

XXIX 

And now he pours his choice of fear 
In secret on Matilda's ear; 

* An union formed with me and mine 
Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line. 
Consent, and all this dread array 
Like morning dream shall pass away ; 
Refuse, and by my duty pressed 

I give the word — thou know'st the rest.' 
Matilda, still and motionless, 800 

With terror heard the dread address. 
Pale as the sheeted maid who dies 
To hopeless love a sacrifice; 
Then wrung her hands in agony, 
And round her cast bewildered eye, 
Now on the scaffold glanced, and now 
On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow. 
She veiled her face, and with a voice 
Scarce audible, ' I make my clioiee ! 
Spare but their lives ! — for aught beside 
Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide. 811 

He once was generous ! ' As slio spoke. 
Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke: 

* Wilfrid, where loitered ye so late ? 
Why upon Basil rest thy weight ? — 
Art spell-bound by enchanter's wand ? — 
Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand; 
Thank her with raptures, simple boy ! 
Should tears and trembling speak thy joy ?* 



282 



ROKEBY 



* O hush, my sire ! To prayer and tear 820 
Of mine thou hast refused thine ear; 

But now the awful hour draws on 
When truth must speak in loftier tone.' 

XXX 

He took Matilda's hand : * Dear maid, 
Couldst thou so injure me,' he said, 

* Of thy poor friend so basely deem 

As blend with him this barbarous scheme ? 

Alas ! my efforts made in vain 

Might well have saved this added pain. 

But now, bear witness earth and heaven 830 

That ne'er was hope to mortal given 

So twisted with the strings of life 

As this — to call Matilda wife ! 

I bid it now forever part, 

And with the effort bursts my heart.' 

His feeble frame was worn so low, 

With wounds, with watching, and with 

woe 
That nature could no more sustain 
The agony of mental pain. 
He kneeled — his lip her hand had 

pressed, 840 

Just then he felt the stern arrest. 
Lower and lower sunk his head, — 
They raised him, — but the life was fled ! 
Then first alarmed his sire and train 
Tried every aid, but tried in vain. 
The soul, too soft its ills to bear. 
Had left our mortal hemisphere, 
And sought in better world the meed 
To blameless life by Heaven decreed. 

XXXI 

The wretched sire beheld aghast 850 

With Wilfrid all his projects past, 
All turned and centred on his son, 
On Wilfrid all — and he was gone. 

* And I am childless now,' he said; 

* Childless, through that relentless maid ! 
A lifetime's arts in vain essayed 

Are bursting on their artist's head ! 
Here lies my Wilfrid dead — and there 
Comes hated Mortham for his heir. 
Eager to knit in happy band 860 

With Rokeby's heiress Redmond's hand. 
And shall their triumph soar o'er all 
The schemes deep-laid to work their fall ? 
No ! — deeds which prudence might not 

dare 
Appall not vengeance and despair. 
The murderess weeps upon his bier — 
I '11 change to real that feigned tear I 



They all shall share destruction's shock; — 
Ho ! lead the captives to the block ! ' 
But ill his provost could divine 870 

His feelings, and forbore the sign. 
* Slave ! to the block ! — or I or they 
Shall face the judgment-seat this day ! ' 

XXXII 

The outmost crowd have heard a sound 
Like horse's hoof on hardened ground; 
Nearer it came, and yet more near, — 
The very death's-men paused to hear. 
'T is in the churchyard now — the tread 
Hath waked the dwelling of the dead ! 
Fresh sod and old sepulchral stone 880 

Betnrn the tramp in varied tone. 
All eyes upon the gateway hung. 
When through the Gothic arch there sprung 
A horseman armed at headlong speed — 
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. 
Fire from the flinty floor was spurned, 
The vaults unwonted clang returned ! — 
One instant's glance around he threw, 
From saddlebow his pistol drew. 
Grimly determined was his look I 890 

His charger with the spurs he strook — 
All scattered backward as he came. 
For all knew Bertram Risingham ! 
Three bounds that noble courser gave ; 
The first has reached the central nave, 
The second cleared the chancel wide, 
The third — he was at Wy cliff e's side. 
Full levelled at the baron's head. 
Rung the report — the bullet sped — 
And to his long account and last 900 

Without a groan dark Oswald past ! 
All was so quick that it might seem 
A flash of lightning or a dream. 

XXXIII 

While yet the smoke the deed conceals, 
Bertram his ready charger wheels ; 
But floundered on the pavement-floor 
The steed and down the rider bore. 
And, bursting in the headlong sway, 
The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 
'T was while he toiled him to be freed, 910 
And with the rein to raise the steed. 
That from amazement's iron trance 
All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once. 
Sword, halberd, musket-butt, their blows 
Hailed upon Bertram as he rose; 
A score of pikes with each a wound 
Bore down and pinned him to the 
ground ; 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



283 



But still his struggling force he rears, 
'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing spears, 
Thrice from assailants shook him free, 920 
Once gained his feet and twice his knee. 
By tenfold odds oppressed at length. 
Despite his struggles and his strength, 
He took a hundred mortal wounds 
As mute as fox 'mongst mangling hounds; 
And when he died his parting groan 
Had more of laughter than of moan ! 
They gazed as when a lion dies. 
And hunters scarcely trust their eyes, 
But bend their weapons on the slain 930 
Lest the grim king should rouse again ! 
Then blow and insult some renewed, 
And from the trunk the head had hewed, 
But Basil's voice the deed forbade; 
A mantle o'er the corse he laid: — 
* Fell as he was in act and mind. 
He left no bolder heart behind: 
Then, give him, for a soldier meet, 
A soldier's cloak for winding sheet.' 

XXXIV 

No more of death and dying pang, 940 

No more of trump and bugle clang, 
Though through the sounding woods there 

come 
Banner and bugle, trump and drum. 
Armed with such powers as well had 

freed 
Young Redmond at his utmost need. 
And backed with such a band of horse 
As might less ample powers enforce, 
Possessed of every proof and sign 
That gave an heir to Mortham's line, 
And yielded to a father's arms 950 

An image of his Edith's charms, — 



Mortham is come, to hear and see 
Of this strange morn the history. 
What saw he ? — not the church's floor. 
Cumbered with dead and stained with gore; 
What heard he ? — not the clamorous 

crowd. 
That shout their gratulations loud: 
Redmond he saw and heard alone. 
Clasped him and sobbed, * My son ! my 

son !' 

XXXV 

This chanced upon a summer morn, 960 
When yellow waved the heavy corn: 
But when brown August o'er the land 
Called forth the reaper's busy band, 
A gladsome sight the sylvan road 
From Eglistone to Mortham showed. 
Awhile the hardy rustic leaves 
The task to bind and pile the sheaves, 
And maids their sickles fling aside 
To gaze on bridegroom and on bride. 
And childhood's wondering group draws 
near, 970 

And from the gleaner's hands the ear 
Drops while she folds them for a prayer 
And blessing on the lovely pair. 
'T was then the Maid of Rokeby gave 
Her plighted troth to Redmond brave; 
And Teesdale can remember yet 
How Fate to Virtue paid her debt. 
And for their troubles bade them prove 
A lengthened life of peace and love. 

Time and Tide had thus their sway, 980 
Yielding, like an April day. 
Smiling noon for sullen morrow. 
Years of joy for hours of sorrow ! 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



One of the projects which grew out of the 
enterprise of the Ballantynes, when Scott was 
drawn into the toils, was the establishment of 
the Edinburgh Annual Register, which was to 
be conducted in opposition to Constable's Kdin- 
iurgh Revieiv. It was to bo mainly historical 
and annalistic, and the Quarterly Review es- 
tablished sliortly after more coiTipletely served 
the purpose of an antap;"onist of the Review, 
but Scott infused a little literary spirit into 
the Begister, and amongst other contributions 



inserted in the first volume, for 1800, some 
imitations of livinc: poets, one of them taking 
JScott himself for its model ! 

Meanwhile Rokcht/ liad been started on the 
stocks ; and Seott, who in the ebullition of his 
active fancy liked to kee]) two or tlireo varied 
tasks on hand, bethoui;lit lnms(»lf of one of 
these frapnents, The Vision of Triermain, and 
ccmceived the notion of expanding: it into a 
poem, to be pid)lished anonymously at the 
same time with Rokeby^ and fathered upon 



284 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



some one of his friends, to complete the mys- 
tification. The fragment taken is nearly 
identical with Canto First of the Bridal^ di- 
visions I.-VIII. He hoped especially by this 
scheme to draw Jeffrey, and elicit from him 
a criticism which would be unencumbered 
by the reviewer's relations with the real au- 
thor. 

As Erskine had generally been credited 
with the authorship of the anonymous frag- 
ments in the Register^ he was asked by Scott to 
play his part in the plot, and good naturedly 
lent his aid. ' I shall be very much amused,' 
he wrote to Scott, ' if the secret is kept and the 
knowing ones taken in. To prevent any dis- 
covery from your prose, what think you of 
putting down your ideas of what the preface 
ought to contain, and allowing me to write it 
over ? And perhaps a quizzing review might 
be concocted.' Scott took the hint, and the 
Introduction to The Bridal of Triermain given 
below is a mixture of Scott and Erskine, the 
latter's quotations from the Greek being es- 
pecially adapted to throwing off the scent 
those who might naturally attribute the poem 
to Scott. In his Introduction to The Lord of 
the Isles, written in 1830, when the secret had 
long been out, Scott wrote : ' Being much 
urged by my intimate friend, now unhappily no 
more, William Erskine (a Scottish judge, by 
the title of Lord Kinedder), I agreed to write 
the little romantic tale called The Bridal of 
Triermain ; but it was on the condition that he 
should make no serious effort to disown the 
composition, if report should lay it at his door. 
As he was more than suspected of a taste for 
poetry, and as I took care, in several places, to 
mix something which might resemble (as far 
as was in my power) my friend's feeling and 
manner, the train easily caught, and two large 
editions were sold. A third being called for, 
Lord Kinedder became unwilling to aid any 
longer a deception which was going farther 
than he expected or desired, and the real au- 
thor's name was given. ' ^ 

Scott had taken Morritt into his confidence, 
but apparently he had not thus treated his in- 
timate correspondent, Lady Louisa Stuart, or 
Lady Abercorn. With both of these clever 
women he kept up a bit of fencing, though it 
is not quite certain that one or the other did 
not have an inkling of the truth, and so amused 
herself with playing a like game of hoodwink- 
ing. The little book was published almost on 
the same day as Bokehy, and Scott wrote to 
Morritt, March 9, 1813 ; ' I wish you would 
give the said author of Triermain a hoist to 
notioe, by speaking of him now and then in 
those parts where a word spoken is sure to 

■* A statement somewhat at variance with Scott's to 
Morritt on occasion of a fourth edition. — See below. 



have a hundred echoes. ... I hear Jeffrey 
has really bestowed great praise on the poem, 
and means to give it a place in his review. It 
has not, he says, my great artery, but there is 
more attention to style, more elegance and or- 
nament, etc., etc. We will see, however, what 
he really will say to it in his review, for there 
is no sure augury from his private conversa- 
tion.' A few days later, when writing to Lady 
Abercorn, Scott threw in a reference to the 
poem in a careless fashion. He is sending her 
some books : ' The first and most interesting 
is a spirited imitation of my manner called The 
Bridal of Triermain. The author is unknown, 
but it makes some noise among us. The other 
is a little novel,' and so on with a reference 
shortly to his own Bokeby. A month later, 
writing the same lady again, he says, paren- 
thetically, as it were, ' The Bridal of Triermain 
is the book which has excited the most inter- 
est here. Jeffrey lauds it highly, I am in- 
formed, and is one day to throw it at my 
head.' Lady Louisa Stuart on her side inti- 
mates that she suspects Scott to have written 
the Bridal, though she reports common rumor 
to assign it to R. P. Gillies. 

It was some time before the authorship was 
rightly placed. Scott and Morritt were disap- 
pointed that Jeffrey did not fall into the trap 
laid for them, but though Scott's name was 
often mentioned as that of the probable author, 
the secret was well kept. As late as January, 
1814, Scott was writing to Morritt : ' The 
fourth edition is at press. The Empress-Dow- 
ager of Prussia has expressed such an interest 
in it, that it will be inscribed to her, in some 
doggerel sonnet or other, by the unknown au- 
thor. This is funny enough ; ' and again to the 
same friend : ' As your conscience has very few 
things to answer for, you must still burthen it 
with the secret of the Bridal. It is spreading 
very rapidly, and I have one or two little faery 
romances which will make a second volume, 
and which I would wish published, but not 
with my name. The truth is that this sort of 
muddling work amuses me, and I am some- 
thing in the condition of Joseph Surface, who 
was embarrassed by getting himself too good 
a reputation ; for many things would please 
people well enough anonymously, which, if 
they bore me on the title-page, would just 
give me that sort of ill-name which precedes 
hanging, and that would be in many respects 
inconvenient if I thought of again trying a 
grande opus. I will give you a hundred good 
reasons when we meet for not owning the 
Bridal till I either secede entirely from the 
field of literature, or from that of life.' It is 
an amusing comment on Scott's willingness to 
allow others to carry off his honors, Avhen we 
find him writing in his Journal a dozen years 



AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 



285 



later : ' A long letter from R. P. Gillies. I 
wonder how ever he could ask me to announce 
myself as the author of Annotations on German 



Novels which he is to write.' The Introduc- 
tion prefixed to the first edition, of March, 
1813, here follows : — 



INTRODUCTION 



In the Edinburgh Annual Register for the 
year 1809, Three Fragments were inserted, 
written in imitation of Living Poets. It must 
have been apparent that by these prolusions 
nothing burlesque or disrespectful to the au- 
thors was intended, but that they were offered 
to the public as serious, though certainly very 
imperfect, imitations of that style of composi- 
tion by which each of the writers is supposed 
to be distinguished. As these exercises at- 
tracted a greater degree of attention than the 
author anticipated, he has been induced to 
complete one of them and present it as a sep- 
arate publication. 

It is not in this place that an examination 
of the works of the master whom he has here 
adopted as his model, can, with propriety, be in- 
troduced ; since his general acquiescence in the 
favorable suffrage of the public must neces- 
sarily be inferred from the attempt he has now 
made. He is induced, by the nature of his 
subject, to offer a few remarks on what has 
been called romantic poetry ; the popularity of 
which has been revived in the present day, 
under the auspices, and by the unparalleled 
success, of one individual. 

The original purpose of poetry is either re- 
ligious or historical, or, as must frequently 
happen, a mixture of both. To modern readers 
the poems of Homer have many of the feat- 
ures of pure romance ; but in the estimation of 
his contemporaries, they probably derived their 
chief value from their supposed historical au- 
thenticity. The same may be generally said 
of the poetry of all early ages. The marvels 
and miracles which the poet blends with his 
song do not exceed in number or extravagance 
the figments of the historians of the same period 
of society ; and indeed, the difference betwixt 
poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical 
truth, is always of late introduction. Poets, 
under various denominations of Bards, Scalds, 
Chroniclers, and so forth, are the first histori- 
ans of all nations. Their intention is to relate 
the events they have witnessed, or the tradi- 
tions that have reached them ; and they clothe 
the relation in rhyme, merely as the means 
of rendering it more solemn in the narrative, 
or more easily committed to memory. But as 
the poetical historian improves in the art of 
conveying information, the autlienticity of his 
narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted 
to dilate and dwell upon the events that are 



interesting to his imagination, and, conscious 
how indifferent his audience is to the naked 
truth of his poem, his history gradually be- 
comes a romance. 

It is in this situation that those epics are 
found, which have been generally regarded the 
standards of poetry ; and it has happened 
somewhat strangely that the moderns have 
pointed out as the characteristics and peculiar 
excellencies of narrative poetry, the very cir- 
cumstances which the authors themselves 
adopted, only because their art involved the 
duties of the historian as well as the poet. It 
cannot be believed, for example, that Homer 
selected the siege of Troy as the most appro- 
priate subject for poetry ; his purpose was to 
write the early history of his country; the 
event he has chosen, though not very fruitful 
in varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted 
for poetry, was nevertheless combined with 
traditionary and genealogical anecdotes ex- 
tremely interesting to those who were to listen 
to him ; and this he has adorned by the exer- 
tions of a genius which, if it has been equalled, 
has certainly been never surpassed. It was 
not till comparatively a late period that the 
general accuracy of his narrative, or his pur- 
pose in composing it, was brought into ques- 
tion. AoKeT TTpcoros [d 'Apa^aySpas^ {Ka6d <pt](Ti 
^a^op7vos eV Travrohairri 'Icrropia) t^v 'O/uLTjpov 
irol-qcxiv aiTo<pi\va(TQai ^Jvai Trepl aperrjs Kol BiKai- 
oavvTjs.^ But whatever theories might be 
framed by speculative men, his work was of 
an historical, not of an allegorical nature. 'Euav- 
tI\\€to jjL^TCL TOv MeWeo) koI '6irov kKaaroTC 
OLcpiKOiTO^ iravra ra iTrixdopia di€pooTaTO, Koi Iff' 
Top€(i)V iirvvOdv^rn- elnhs 5e ixiv -fiv Ka\ ixv7]^ioffvvr}V 
Trdvrcou ypdcpeffQai.'^ Instead of recommend- 
ing the choice of a subject similar to that of 
Homer, it was to be expected that critics 
should have exhorted the poets of these latter 
days to adopt or invent a narrative in itself 
more susceptible of poetical ornament, and to 
avail themselves of that advantage in order 
to compensate, in some degree, the inferiority 
of genius. The contrary course has been in- 
culcated by almost all the writers upon the 
Kpopoeia ; with what success, the fate of 
Homer's numerous imitators may best show. 
The uliimum suppltcium of criticism wjw in- 

^ Diopones Laertiua, lib. ii. Anaxajf- Sojj^m. II. 
2 Houiori Vita, in Uerod. Jlenr, IStevh. 1570, p. 
350. 



286 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



flicted on the author if he did not choose a 
subject which at once deprived him of all 
I claim to originality, and placed him, if not in 
actual contest, at least in fatal comparison, 
with those giants in the land whom it was 
most his interest to avoid. The celebrated 
receipt for writing- an epic poem, which ap- 
peared in The Guardian^ was the first instance 
in which common sense was applied to this 
department of poetry ; and, indeed, if the ques- 
tion be considered on its own merits, we must 
be satisfied that narrative poetry, if strictly 
confined to the great occurrences of history, 
would be deprived of the individual interest 
which it is so well calculated to excite. 

Modern poets may therefore be pardoned in 
seeking simpler subjects of verse, more inter- 
esting in proportion to their simplicity. Two 
or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist 
better than a crowd, for whatever purpose 
assembled. For the same reason, a scene im- 
mediately presented to the imagination, and 
directly brought home to the feelings, though 
involving the fate of but one or two persons, 
is more favorable for poetry than the political 
struggles and convulsions which influence the 
fate of kingdoms. The former are within the 
reach and comprehension of all, and, if depicted 
with vigor, seldom fail to fix attention : The 
other if more sublime, are more vague and 
distant, less capable of being distinctly under- 
stood, and infinitely less capable of exciting 
those sentiments which it is the very purpose 
of poetry to inspire. To generalize is always 
to destroy efPect. We would, for example, be 
more interested in the fate of an individual 
soldier in combat, than in the grand event of 
a general action ; with the happiness of two 
lovers raised from misery and anxiety to peace 
and union, than with the successful exertions 
of a whole nation. From what causes this 
may originate, is a separate and obviously an 
immaterial consideration. Before ascribing 
this peculiarity to causes decidedly and 
odiously selfish, it is proper to recollect that 
while men see only a limited space, and while 
1 The Guardian, No. 78. Pope. 



their affections and conduct are regulated, not 
by aspiring to an universal good, but by exert- 
ing their power of making themselves and 
others happy within the limited scale allotted 
to each individual, so long will individual his- 
tory and individual virtue be the readier and 
more accessible road to general interest and 
attention ; and, perhaps, we may add, that it 
is the more useful, as well as the more acces- 
sible, inasmuch as it affords an example capa- 
ble of being easily imitated. 

According to the author's idea of Romantic 
Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former 
comprehends a fictitious narrative, framed and 
combined at the pleasure of the writer ; begin- 
ning and ending as he may judge best ; which 
neither exacts nor refuses the use of supernat- 
ural machinery ; which is free from the tech- 
nical rules of the Ep6e; and is subject only to 
those which good sense, good taste, and good 
morals apply to every species of poetry without 
exception. The date may be in a remote age, 
or in the present; the story may detail the 
adventures of a prince or of a peasant. In a 
word, the author is absolute master of his 
country and its inhabitants, and everything is 
permitted to him, excepting to be heavy or 
prosaic, for which, free and unembarrassed as 
he is, he has no manner of apology. Those, 
it is probable, will be found the peculiarities 
of this species of composition ; and before 
joining the outcry against the vitiated taste 
that fosters and encourages it, the justice and 
grounds of it ought to be made perfectly 
apparent. If the want of sieges and battles 
and great military evolutions, in our poetry, is 
complained of, let us reflect that the campaigns 
and heroes of our days are perpetuated in a 
record that neither requires nor admits of the 
aid of fiction ; and if the complaint refers to 
the inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just 
tribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it 
does, to subjects which, however indifferently 
treated, have still the interest and charm of 
novelty, and which thus prevents them from 
adding insipidity to their other more insuper- 
able defects. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 

OR 

THE VALE OF SAINT JOHN 
A LOVER'S TALE 



INTRODUCTION 



Come Lucy ! while 't is morning hour 

The woodland brook we needs must 
pass; 
So ere the sun assume his power 
We shelter in our poplar bower, 
Where dew lies long upon the flower, 

Though vanished from the velvet grass. 
Curbing the stream, this stony ridge 
May serve us for a sylvan bridge; 

For here compelled to disunite. 

Round petty isles the runnels glide, lo 
And chafing off their puny spite, 
The shallow raurmurers waste their might. 

Yielding to footstep free and light 
A dry-shod pass from side to side. 

II 

Nay, why this hesitating pause ? 
And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws. 
Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim ? 

Titania's foot without a slip, 
Like thine, though timid, light, and slim, 

From stone to stone might safely trip, 20 

Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip 
That binds her slipper's silken rim. 
Or trust thy lover's strength; nor fear 

That this same stalwart arm of mine. 
Which could yon oak's prone trunk up- 
rear, 
Shall shrink beneath the burden dear 

Of form so slender, light, and fine. — 
So — now, the danger dared at last. 
Look back and smile at perils past ! 

Ill 

And now we reach the favorite glade, 30 
Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and stone. 

Where never harsher sounds invade 
To break affection's whispering tone 

Than the deep breeze that waves the shade, 
Thau the small brooklet's feeble moan. 



287 



Come ! rest thee on thy wonted seat; 

Mossed is the stone, the turf is green, 
A place where lovers best may meet 

Who would not that their love be seen. 
The boughs that dim the summer sky 40 
Shall hide us from each lurking spy 

That fain would spread the invidious 
tale, 
How Lucy of the lofty eye, 
Noble in birth, in fortunes high. 
She for whom lords and barons sigh, 

Meets her poor Aj-thur in the dale. 

IV 

How deep that blush ! — how deep that 

sigh ! 
And why does Lucy shun mine eye ? 
Is it because that crimson draws 
Its color from some secret cause, 50 

Some hidden movement of the breast. 
She would not that her Arthur guessed ? 
O, quicker far is lovers' ken 
Than the dull glance of common men, 
And by strange sympathy can spell 
The thoughts the loved one will not tell ! 
And mine in Lucy's blush saw met 
The hue of pleasure and regret; 

Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, 
And shared with Love the crimson 
glow, 60 

Well pleased that thou art Arthur's 
choice. 
Yet shamed thine own is placed so 
low: 
Thou turn'st thy self-confessing cheek. 

As if to meet the breezes cooling; 
Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak, 

For Love too has his hours of school- 
ing. 



Too oft my anxious eye has spied 

That secret grief thou fain would st hide, 

Tlie pjissing pang of humbled pride; 



288 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



Too oft when through the splendid 
hall, 70 

The loadstar of each heart and eye, 
My fair one leads the glittering ball, 
Will her stolen glance on Arthur fall 

With such a blush and such a sigh ! 
Thou wouldst not yield for wealth or 
rank 

The heart thy worth and beauty won. 
Nor leave me on this mossy bank 

To meet a rival on a throne : 
Why then should vain repinings rise. 
That to thy lover fate denies 80 

A nobler name, a wide domain, 
A baron's birth, a menial train, 
Since Heaven assigned him for his part 
A lyre, a falchion, and a heart ? 

VI 

My sword — its master must be dumb ; 
But when a soldier names my name. 
Approach, my Lucy ! fearless come. 

Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame. 
My heart — mid all yon courtly crew 

Of lordly rank and lofty line, 90 

Is there to love and honor true. 

That boasts a pulse so warm as mine ? 
They praised thy diamonds' lustre rare — 
Matched with thine eyes, I thought it 
faded ; 
They praised the pearls that bound thy 
hair — 
I only saw the locks they braided; 
They talked of wealthy dower and land, 

And titles of high birth the token — 
I thought of Lucy's heart and hand. 

Nor knew the sense of what was 
spoken. 100 

And yet, if ranked in Fortune's roll, 

I might have learned their choice un- 
wise 
Who rate the dower above the soul 
And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes. 

VII 

My lyre — it is an idle toy 

That borrows accents not its own, 
Like warbler of Colombian sky 

That sings but in a mimic tone. 
Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well, 
Nor boasts it aught of Border spell; no 
Its strings no feudal slogan pour, 
Its heroes draw no broad claymore; 
No shouting clans applauses raise 
Because it sung their fathers' praise; 



On Scottish moor, or English down. 
It ne'er was graced with fair renown; 
Nor won — best meed to minstrel true — 
One favoring smile from fair Buccleuch ! 
By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, 
And heard by one dear maid alone. 120 

VIII 

But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell 
Of errant knight, and damoselle; 
Of the dread knot a wizard tied 
In punishment of maiden's pride, 
In notes of marvel and of fear 
That best may charm romantic ear. 

For Lucy loves — like Collins, ill-starred 
name ! 

Whose lay's requital was that tardy Fame^ 

Who bound no laurel round his living 
head, 

Should hang it o'er his monument when 
dead, — 130 

For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand, 

And thread like him the maze of Fairy- 
land ; 

Of golden battlements to view the gleam, 

And slumber soft by some Elysian stream; 

Such lays she loves — and, such my Lucy's 
choice. 

What other song can claim her Poet's 
voice ? 



CANTO FIRST 



Where is the maiden of mortal strain 
That may match with the Baron of Trier- 
main ? 
She must be lovely and constant and kind, 
Holy and pure and humble of mind. 
Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood. 
Courteous and generous and noble of 

blood — 
Lovely as the sun's first ray 
When it breaks the clouds of an April 

day; 
Constant and true as the widowed dove, 
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love; 10 
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave 
Where never sunbeam kissed the wave; 
Humble as maiden that loves in vain. 
Holy as hermit's vesper strain; 
Gentle as breeze that but whispers and 
dies, 



CANTO FIRST 



289 



Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in 

its sighs; 
Courteous as monarch the morn he is 

crowned, 
Generous as spring-dews that bless the 

glad ground; 
^oble her blood as the currents that met 19 
In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet — 
Such must her form be, her mood, and her 

strain, 
That shall match with Sir Koland of Trier- 



II 

Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to 

sleep. 
His blood it was fevered, his breathing 

was deep. 
He had been pricking against the Scot, 
The foray was long and the skirmish hot; 
His dinted helm and his buckler's plight 
Bore token of a stubborn fight. 

All in the castle must hold them still, 
Harpers must lull him to his rest 30 

With the slow soft tunes he loves the best 
Till sleep sink down upon his breast, 

Like the dew on a summer hill. 

Ill 

It was the dawn of an autumn day ; 
The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray 
That like a silvery crape was spread 
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head, 
And faintly gleamed each painted pane 
Of the lordly halls of Triermain, 

When that baron bold awoke. 
Starting he woke and loudly did call. 
Rousing his menials in bower and hall 

While hastily he spoke. 



40 



IV 

* Hearken, my minstrels ! Which of ye all 
Touched his harp with that dying fall, 

So sweet, so soft, so faint. 
It seemed an angel's whispered call 

To an expiring saint ? 
And hearken, my merry-men ! What time 
or where 
Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly 
brow, 50 

With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, 
And her graceful step and her angel air. 
And the eagle plume in her dark-brown 
hair. 
That passed from my bower e'en now ! ' 



Answered him Richard de Bretville; he 
Was chief of the baron's minstrelsy, — 

* Silent, noble chieftain, we 

Have sat since midnight close. 
When such lulling sounds as the brooklet 

sings 
Murmured from our melting strings, 60 
And hushed you to repose. 

Had a harp-note sounded here, 

It had caught my watchful ear. 
Although it fell as faint and shy 
As bashful maiden's half-formed sigh 

When she thinks her lover near.' 
Answered Philip of Fasthwaite tall; 
He kept guard in the outer-hall, — 

* Since at eve our watch took post. 

Not a foot has thy portal crossed; 70 

Else had I heard the steps, though low 
And light they fell as when earth receives 
In morn of frost the withered leaves 
That drop when no winds blow.' 

VI 

* Then come thou hither, Henry, my page. 
Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage, 
When that dark castle, tower, and spire. 
Rose to the skies a pile of fire. 

And reddened all the Nine-stane Hill, 79 
And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke 
Through devouring flame and smothering 
smoke. 

Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. 
The trustiest thou of all my train. 
My fleetest courser thou must rein. 

And ride to Lyulph's tower. 
And from the Baron of Triermain 

Greet well that sage of power. 
He is sprung from Druid sires 
And British bards that tuned their lyres 
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise, 90 
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise. 
Gifted like his gifted race, 
He the characters can trace 
Graven deep in elder time 
Upon Hellvellyn's cliffs sublime; 
Sign and sigil well doth he know, 
And can bode of weal and woe. 
Of kingdoms' fall and fate of wars, 
From mystic dreams and course of stars. 
He shall tell if middle earth 10c 

To that enchanting shape gave birth, 
Or if 't was but an airy thing 
Such as fantastic slumbers bring, 
Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes 



290 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



Or fading tints of western skies. 
For, by the blessed rood I swear, 
If that fair form breathe vital air, 
No other maiden by my side 
Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride ! ' 

VII 

The faithful page he mounts his steed, nc 
And soon he crossed green Irthing's mead, 
Dashed o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain. 
And Eden barred his course in vain. 
He passed red Penrith's Table Round, 
For feats of chivalry renowned, 
Left Mayburgh's mound and stones of 

power. 
By Druids raised in magic hour. 
And traced the Eamont's winding way 
Till Ulfo's lake beneath him lay. 

VIII 

Onward he rode, the pathway still 120 

Winding betwixt the lake and hill; 

Till, on the fragment of a rock 

Struck from its base by lightning shock. 

He saw the hoary sage: 
The silver moss and lichen twined. 
With fern and deer -hair checked and 
lined, 

A cushion fit for age; 
And o'er him shook the aspen-tree, 
A restless rustling canopy. 
Then sprung young Henry from his selle 130 

And greeted Lyulph grave, 
And then his master's tale did tell. 

And then for counsel crave. 
The man of years mused long and deep. 
Of time's lost treasures taking keep, 
And then, as rousing from a sleep, 

His solemn answer gave. 

IX 

* That maid is born of middle earth 

And may of man be won, 
Though there have glided since her birth 140 

Five hundred years and one. 
But where 's the knight in all the north 
Tliat dare the adventure follow forth, 
So perilous to knightly worth. 

In the valley of Saint John ? 
Listen, youth, to what I tell. 
And bind it on thy memory well; 
Nor muse that I commence the rhyme 
Far distant mid the wrecks of time. 
The mystic tale by bard and sage 150 

Is handed down from Merlin's age. 



lyulph' S TALE 

* King Arthur has ridden from merry Car- 
lisle 
When Pentecost was o'er: 
He journeyed like errant-knight the while 
And sweetly the summer sun did smile 

On mountain, moss, and moor. 
Above his solitary track 
Rose Glaramara's ridgy back. 
Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun 
Cast umbered radiance red and dun, 160 
Though never sunbeam could discern 
The surface of that sable tarn, 
In whose black mirror you may spy 
The stars while noontide lights the sky. 
The gallant king he skirted still 
The margin of that mighty hill; 
Rock upon rocks incumbent hung. 
And torrents, down the gullies flung. 
Joined the rude river that brawled on. 
Recoiling now from crag and stone. 
Now diving deep from human ken. 
And raving down its darksome glen. 
The monarch judged this desert wild, 
With such romantic ruin piled, 
Was theatre by Nature's hand 
For feat of high achievement planned. 

XI 

* O, rather he chose, that monarch bold. 

On venturous quest to ride 
In plate and mail by wood and wold 
Than, with ermine trapped and cloth of 
gold, 180 

In princely bower to bide; 
The bursting crash of a foeman's spear, 

As it shivered against his mail. 
Was merrier music to his ear 

Than courtier's whispered tale: 
And the clash of Caliburn more dear, 
When on the hostile casque it rung. 
Than all the lays 
To the monarch's praise 
That the harpers of Reged sung. 190 

He loved better to rest by wood or river 
Than in bower of his bride. Dame Guen- 

ever, 
For he left that lady so lovely of cheer 
To follow adventures of danger and fear; 
And the frank-hearted monarch full little 

did wot 
That she smiled in his absence on brave 
Lancelot. 



CANTO FIRST 



291 



XII 

* He rode till over down and dell 

The shade more broad and deeper fell ; 
And though around the mountain's head 
Flowed streams of purple and gold and 

red, 200 

Dark at the base, unblest by beam, 
Frowned the black rocks and roared the 

stream. 
With toil the king his way pursued 
By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood. 
Till on his course obliquely shone 
The narrow valley of Saint John, 
Down sloping to the western sky 
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie. 
Right glad to feel those beams again. 
The king drew up his charger's rein; 210 
With gauntlet raised he screened his sight, 
As dazzled with the level light, 
And from beneath his glove of mail 
Scanned at his ease the lovely vale. 
While 'gainst the sun his armor bright 
Gleamed ruddy like the beacon's light. 

XIII 

* Paled in by many a lofty hill. 

The narrow dale lay smooth and still, 
And, down its verdant bosom led, 
A winding brooklet found its bed, 220 

But midmost of the vale a mound 
Arose with airy turrets crowned, 
Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, 

And mighty keep and tower; 
Seemed some primeval giant's hand 
The castle's massive walls had planned, 
A ponderous bulwark to withstand 

Ambitious Nimrod's power. 
Above the moated entrance slung, 
The balanced drawbridge trembling 
hung, 230 

As jealous of a foe; 
Wicket of oak, as iron hard. 
With iron studded, clenched, and barred. 
And pronged portcullis, joined to guard 

The gloomy pass below. 
But the gray walls no banners crowned, 
Upon the watchtower's airy round 
No warder stood his horn to sound. 
No guard beside the bridge was found. 
And where the Gothic gateway frowned 240 

Glanced neither bill nor bow. 

XIV 

* Beneath the castle's gloomy pride, 
In ample round did Arthur ride 



Three times; nor living thing he spied, 

Nor heard a living sound. 
Save that, awakening from her dream, 
The owlet now began to scream 
In concert with the rushing stream 

That washed the battled mound. 
He lighted from his goodly steed, 250 

And he left him to graze on bank and mead ; 
And slowly he climbed the narrow way 
That reached the entrance grim and gray. 
And he stood the outward arch below. 
And his bugle-horn prepared to blow 

In summons blithe and bold. 
Deeming to rouse from iron sleep 
The guardian of this dismal keep, 

Which well he guessed the hold 
Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, 260 

Or pagan of gigantic limb, 

The tyrant of the wold. 

XV 

*The ivory bugle's golden tip 

Twice touched the monarch's manly lip, 

And twice his hand withdrew. — 
Think not but Arthur's heart was good ! 
His shield was crossed by the blessed rood: 
Had a pagan host before him stood. 

He had charged them through and 
through ; 
Yet the silence of that ancient place 270 
Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space 

Ere yet his horn he blew. 
But, instant as its larum rung, 
The castle gate was open flung. 
Portcullis rose with crashing groan 
Full harshly up its groove of stone; 
The balance-beams obeyed the blast. 
And down the trembling drawbridge cast; 
The vaulted arch before him lay 
With nought to bar the gloomy way, 280 
And onward Arthur paced with hand 
On Caliburn's resistless brand. 

XVI 

* A hundred torches flashing bright 
Dispelled at once the gloomy night 

That loured along the walls. 
And showed the king's astonished sight 

The inmates of the halls. 
Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim. 
Nor giant huge of form and limb. 

Nor heathen knight, was there; 29a 

But the cressets which odors flung aloft 
Showed by their yellow light and soft 

A band of damsels fair. 



292 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



Onward they came, like summer wave 

That dances to the shore ; 
An hundred voices welcome gave, 

And welcome o'er and o'er ! 
An hundred lovely hands assail 
The bucklers of the monarch's mail, 
And busy labored to unhasp 300 

Rivet of steel and iron clasp. 
One wrapped him in a mantle fair. 
And one flung odors on his hair; 
His short curled ringlets one smoothed 

down, 
One wreathed them with a myrtle crown. 
A bride upon her wedding-day 
Was tended ne'er by troop so gay. 

XVII 

* Loud laughed they all, — the king in 

vain 
With questions tasked the giddy train; 
Let him entreat or crave or call, 310 

'T was one reply — loud laughed they all. 
Then o'er him mimic chains they fling 
Framed of the fairest flowers of spring; 
While some their gentle force unite 
Onward to drag the wondering knight. 
Some bolder urge his pace with blows, 
Dealt with the lily or the rose. 
Behind him were in triumph borne 
The warlike arms he late had worn. 
Four of the train combined to rear 320 

The terrors of Tintagel's spear; 
Two, laughing at their lack of strength. 
Dragged Caliburn in cumbrous length; 
One, while she aped a martial stride. 
Placed on her brows the helmet's pride; 
Then screamed 'twixt laughter and sur- 
prise 
To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes. 
With revel-shout and triumph-song 
Thus gayly marched the giddy throng. 

XVIII 

* Through many a gallery and hall 330 
They led, I ween, their royal thrall; 

At length, beneath a fair arcade 

Their march and song at once they staid. 

The eldest maiden of the band — 

The lovely maid was scarce eighteen — 
Raised with imposing air her hand, 
And reverent silence did command 

On entrance of their Queen, 
And they were mute. — But as a glance 
They steal on Arthur's countenance 340 

Bewildered with surprise, 



Their smothered mirth again 'gan speak 
In archly dimpled chin and cheek 
And laughter-lighted eyes. 

XIX 

* The attributes of those high days 
Now only live in minstrel-lays; 
For Nature, now exhausted, still 
Was then profuse of good and ill. 
Strength was gigantic, valor high, 

And wisdom soared beyond the sky, 350 
And beauty had such matchless beam 
As lights not now a lover's dream. 
Yet e'en in that romantic age 

Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen 
As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage, 
When forth on that enchanted stage 
With glittering train of maid and page 

Advanced the castle's queen ! 
While up the hall she slowly passed, 
Her dark eye on the king she cast 360 

That flashed expression strong; 
The longer dwelt that lingering look. 
Her cheek the livelier color took. 
And scarce the shame-faced king could 
brook 

The gaze that lasted long, 
A sage who had that look espied, 
Where kindling passion strove with pride, 

Had whispered, " Prince, beware ! 
From the chafed tiger rend the prey. 
Rush on the lion when at bay, 370 

Bar the fell dragon's blighted way, 

But shun that lovely snare ! " 

XX 

* At once, that inward strife suppressed. 
The dame approached her warlike guest. 
With greeting in that fair degree 
Where female pride and courtesy 

Are blended with such passing art 

As awes at once and charms the heart. 

A courtly welcome first she gave, 

Then of his goodness 'gan to crave 38< 

Construction fair and true 
Of her light maidens' idle mirth, 
Who drew from lonely glens their birth 
Nor knew to pay to stranger worth 

And dignity their due; 
And then she prayed that he would rest 
That night her castle's honored guest. 
The monarch meetly thanks expressed; 
The banquet rose at her behest. 
With lay and tale, and laugh and jest, 390 

Apace the evening flew. 



1 



CANTO SECOND 



293 



XXI 
* The lady sate the monarch by, 
Now in her turn abashed and shy, 
And with indifference seemed to hear 
The toys he whispered in her ear. 
Her bearing modest was and fair, 
Yet shadows of constraint were there 
That showed an over-cautions care 

Some inward thought to hide; 
Oft did she pause in full reply, 400 

And oft cast down her large dark eye, 
Oft checked the soft voluptuous sigh 

That heaved her bosom's pride. 
Slight symptoms these, but shepherds 

know 
How hot the mid-day sun shall glow 

From the mist of morning sky; 
And so the wily monarch guessed 
That this assumed restraint expressed 
More ardent passions in the breast 

Than ventured to the eye. 410 

Closer he pressed while beakers rang. 
While maidens laughed and minstrels sang. 

Still closer to her ear — 
But why pursue the common tale ? 
Or wherefore show how knights prevail 

When ladies dare to hear ? 
Or wherefore trace from what slight cause 
Its source one tyrant passion draws, 

Till, mastering all within, 
Where lives the man that has not tried 420 
How mirth can into folly glide 

And folly into sin ! ' 



CANTO SECOND 



LYULPH S TALE CONTINUED 



* Another day, another day, 
And yet another, glides away ! 
The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane, 
Maraud on Britain's shores again. 
Arthur, of Christendom the flower, 
Lies loitering in a lady's bower; 
The horn that foemen wcmt to fear 
Sounds but to wake tlie Cumbrian deer, 
And Caliburn, the British pride. 
Hangs useless by a lover's side. 

II 

* Another day, another day. 
And yet another, glides away. 
Heroic plans in pleasure drowned, 



He thinks not of the Table Round; 

In lawless love dissolved his life. 

He thinks not of his beauteous wife: 

Better he loves to snatch a flower 

From bosom of his paramour 

Than from a Saxon knight to wrest 

The honors of his heathen crest; 20 

Better to wreathe mid tresses brown 

The heron's plume her hawk struck down 

Than o'er the altar give to flow 

The banners of a Paynim foe. 

Thus week by week and day by day 

His life inglorious glides away; 

But she that soothes his dream with fear 

Beholds his hour of waking near. 

Ill 
* Much force have mortal charms to stay 
Our pace in Virtue's toilsome way; 30 

But Guendolen's might far outshine 
Each maid of merely mortal line. 
Her mother was of human birth. 
Her sire a Genie of the earth. 
In days of old deemed to preside 
O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride. 
By youths and virgins worshipped long 
With festive dance and choral song. 
Till, when the cross to Britain came. 
On heathen altars died the flame. 40 

Now, deep in Wastdale solitude. 
The downfall of his rights he rued, 
And born of his resentment heir. 
He trained to guile that lady fair. 
To sink in slothful sin and shame 
The champions of the Christian name. 
Well skilled to keep vain thoughts alive, 
And all to promise, nought to give, 
The timid youth had hope in store. 
The bold and pressing gained no more. 50 
As wildered children leave their home 
After the rainbow's arch to roam. 
Her lovers bartered fair esteem. 
Faith, fame, and honor, for a dream. 

IV 

' Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame 

She practised thus — till Arthur came; 

Then frail humanity had part, 

And all the mother claimed her heart. 

Forgot each rule her father gave, 

Sunk from a princess to a slave, 6c 

Too late must Gucndolen deplore. 

He that has all can hope no more I 

Now must she see her lover strain 

At every turn her feeble chain. 



294 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



Watch to new-bind each knot and shrink 

To view each fast-decaying link. 

Art she invokes to Xature's aid. 

Her vest to zone, her locks to braid; 

Each varied pleasure heard her call, 

The feast, the tourney, and the ball: 70 

Her storied lore she next applies. 

Taxing her mind to aid her eyes; 

Xow more than mortal wise and then 

In female softness sunk again; 

Xow raptured with each wish complying, 

With feigned reluctance now denying; 

Each charm she varied to retain 

A varying heart — and all in vain ! 



* Thus in the garden's narrow bound 
Flanked by some castle's Gothic round, So 
Fain would the artist's skill provide 

The limits of his realms to hide. 

The walks in labyrinths he twines. 

Shade after shade with skill combines 

With many a varied flowery knot, 

And copse and arbor, decks the spot, 

Tempting the hasty foot to stay 

And linger on the lovely wav -^ 

Vain art ! vain hope ! 't is fruitless all ! 

At length we reach the bounding wall ! 90 

And, sick of flower and trim-dressed tree, 

Long for rough glades and forest free. 

VI 

* Three summer months had scantly flown 
When Arthur in embarrassed tone* 
Spoke of his liegemen and his throne; 
Said all too long had been his stay, 

And duties which a monarch sway. 
Duties unknown to humbler men,' 
Must tear her knight from Guendolen. 
She listened silently the while, 100 

Her mood expressed in bitter smile 
Beneath her eye must Arthur quaU 
And oft resume the unfinished tale, 
Confessing by his downcast eve 
The wrong he sought to justify. 
He ceased. A moment mute she gazed. 
And then her looks to heaven she raised; 
One palm her temples veiled to hide 
The tear that sprung in spite of pride; 
The other for an instant pressed 1,0 

The foldings of her silken vest ! 

VII 

* At her reproachful sign and look, 
The hint the monarch's conscience took. 



Eager he spoke — " Xo, lady, no ! 

Deem not of British Arthur so, 

Xor think he can deserter prove 

To the dear pledge of mutual love. 

I swear by sceptre and by sword, 

As belted knight and Britain's lord, 

That if a boy shall claim my care, 12 

That boy is born a kingdom's heir; 

But, if a maiden Fate allows, 

To choose that mate a fitting spouse, 

A summer-day in lists shall strive 

My knights ~ the bravest knights alive — 

And he, the best and bravest tried. 

Shall Arthur's daughter claim for bride." 

He spoke with voice resolved and high — 

The lady deigned him not reply. 



130 



VIII 

* At dawn of morn ere on the brake 
His matins did a warbler make 
Or stuTed his wing to brush away 
A single dew-drop from the spray, 
Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist 
The castle-battlements had kissed, 

The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls, 
And Arthur sallies from the walls. 
Doffed his soft garb of Persia's loom, 
And steel from spur to helmet plume, 
His Lybian steed full proudly trode, 14- 
And joyful neighed beneath his load. 
The monarch gave a passing sio^h 
To penitence and pleasures by. 
When, lo I to his astonished ken 
Appeared the form of Guendolen. 

IX 

* Beyond the outmost wall she stood. 
Attired bike huntress of the wood: 
Sandalled her feet, her ankles bare, 
And eagle-plumage decked her hair; 
Firm was her look, her bearing bold, 150 
And in her hand a cup of gold. 

'• Thou goest ! " she said, '' and ne'er again 
Must we two meet in joy or pain. 
Full fain would I this hour delay. 
Though weak the wish —yet wilt' thou stay ? 
Xo ! thou look'st forward. Still attend,* — 
Part we like lover and like friend." 
She raised the cup — " Xot this the juice 
The sluggish vines of earth produce; 
Pledge we at parting in the draught its 
Which Genii love ! " — she said and 

quaffed; 
And strange unwonted lustres fly 
From her flushed cheek and sparkling eye. 



CANTO SECOND 



295 



' The courteous monarch bent him low 
And, stooping down from saddlebow, 
Lifted the cup in act to drink. 
A drop escaped the goblet's brink — 
Intense as liquid fire from hell. 
Upon the charger's neck it fell. 
Screaming with agony and fright, 170 

He bolted twenty feet upright — 
The peasant still can show the dint 
Where his hoofs lighted on the flint. — 
From Arthur's hand the goblet flew, 
Scattering a shower of fiery dew 
That burned and blighted where it fell I 
The frantic steed rushed up the dell, 
As whistles from the bow the reed; 
Nor bit nor rein could check his speed 

Until he gained the hill; 180 

Then breath and sinew failed apace, 
And, reeling from the desperate race, 

He stood exhausted, still. 
The monarch, breathless and amazed. 
Back on the fatal castle gazed — 
Nor tower nor donjon could he spy, 
Darkening against the morning sky ; 
But on the spot where once they frowned 
The lonely streamlet brawled around 
A tufted knoll, where dimly shone 190 

Fragments of rock and rifted stone. 
Musing on this strange hap the while. 
The king wends back to fair Carlisle; 
And cares that cumber royal sway 
Wore memory of the past away. 

XI 

* Full fifteen years and more were sped, 
Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head. 
Twelve bloody fields with glory fought 
The Saxons to subjection brought: 
Rython, the mighty giant, slain 200 
By his good brand, relieved Bretagne: 
The Pictish Gillamore in fight 

And Roman Lucius owned his might; 
And wide were through the world renowned 
The glories of his Table Round. 
Each knight who sought adventurous fame 
To the bold court of Britain came. 
And all who suffered causeless wrong. 
From tyrant proud or faitour strong, 
Sought Arthur's presence to complain, 210 
Nor there for aid implored in vain. 

XII 

* For this the king with pomp and pride 
Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, 



And summoned prince and peer. 
All who owed homage for their land. 
Or who craved knighthood from his hand, 
Or who had succour to demand, 

To come from far and near. 
At such high tide were glee and game 
Mingled with feats of martial fame, 220 
For many a stranger champion came 

In lists to break a spear; 
And not a knight of Arthur's host, 
Save that he trode some foreign coast, 
But at this feast of Pentecost 

Before him must appear. 
Ah, minstrels ! when the Table Round 
Arose with all its warriors crowned, 
There was a theme for bards to sound 

In triumph to their string 1 230 

Five hundred years are past and gone, 
But time shall draw his dying groan 
Ere he behold the British throne 

Begirt with such a ring ! 

XIII 

* The heralds named the appointed spot, 
As Caerleon or Camelot, 

Or Carlisle fair and free. 
At Penrith now the feast was set. 
And in fair Eamont's vale were met 

The flower of chivalry. 240 

There Galaad sate with manly grace, 
Yet maiden meekness in his face; 
There Morolt of the iron mace, 

And love-lorn Tristrem there; 
And Dinadam with lively glance, 
And Lanval with the fairy lance, 
And Mordred with his look askance, 

Brunor and Bevidere. 
Why should I tell of numbers more ? 
Sir Cay, Sir Bannier, and Sir Bore, 250 

Sir Carodac the keen, 
The gentle Gawain's courteous lore, 
Hector de Mares and Pellinore, 
And Lancelot, that evermore 

Looked stolen- wise on the queen. 

XIV 

* When wine and mirth did most abound 
And harpers played their blithest round, 
A shrilly trumpet shook the ground 

And marshals cleared the ring; 
A maiden on a palfrey white, 200 

Heading a band of damsels bright, 
Paced through the circle to alight 

And kneel before the king. 
Arthur with strong emotion saw 



296 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



Her graceful boldness checked by awe, 
Her dress like huntress of the wold, 
Her bow and baldric trapped with gold. 
Her sandalled feet, her ankles bare. 
And the eagle-plume that decked her hair. 
Graceful her veil she backward flung — 270 
The king, as from his seat he sprung. 

Almost cried, " Guendolen ! " 
But 't was a face more frank and wild, 
Betwixt the woman and the child. 
Where less of magic beauty smiled 

Than of the race of men; 
And in the forehead's haughty grace 
The lines of Britain's royal race, 

Pendragon's you might ken. 

XV 

* Faltering, yet gracefully she said — 280 
" Great Prince ! behold an orphan maid, 
In her departed mother's name, 

A father's vowed protection claim ! 
The vow was sworn in desert lone 
In the deep valley of Saint John." 
At once the king the suppliant raised. 
And kissed her brow, her beauty praised; 
His vow, he said, should well be kept. 
Ere in the sea the sun was dipped, — 
Then conscious glanced upon his queen: 290 
But she, unruffled at the scene 
Of human frailty construed mild, 
Looked upon Lancelot and smiled. 

XVI 

* " Up ! up ! each knight of gallant crest 

Take buckler, spear, and brand ! 
He that to-day shall bear him best 

Shall win my Gyneth's hand. 
And Arthur's daughter when a bride 

Shall bring a noble dower. 
Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide, 300 

And Carlisle town and tower." 
Then might you hear each valiant knight 

To page and squire that cried, 
** Bring ni}^ armor bright and my courser 

wight; 
*T is not each day that a warrior^s might 

May win a royal bride." 
Then cloaks and caps of maintenance 

In haste aside they fling; 
The helmets glance and gleams the lance, 

And the steel-weaved hauberks ring. 310 
Small care had they of their peaceful array, 

They might gather it that wolde; 
For brake and bramble glittered gay 

With pearls and cloth of gold. 



XVII 

* Within trumpet sound of the Table Round, 

Were fifty champions free. 
And they all arise to fight that prize, — 

They all arise but three. 
Nor love's fond troth nor wedlock's oath 

One gallant could withhold, 320 

For priests will allow of a broken vow 

For penance or for gold. 
But sigh and glance from ladies bright 

Among the troop were thrown. 
To plead their right and true-love plight, 

And plain of honor flown. 
The knights they busied them so fast 

W^ith buckling spur and belt 
That sigh and look by ladies cast 

Were neither seen nor felt. 
From pleading or upbraiding glance 

Each gallant turns aside. 
And only thought, " If speeds my lance, 

A queen becomes my bride ! 
She has fair Strath -Clyde and Reged 
wide. 

And Carlisle tower and town; 
She is the loveliest maid, beside, 

That ever heired a crown." 
So in haste their coursers they bestride 

And strike their visors down. 



330 



340 



XVIII 



* The champions, armed in martial sort, 

Have thronged into the list. 
And but three knights of Arthur's court 

Are from the tourney missed. 
And still these lovers' fame survives 

For faith so constant shown, — 
There were two who loved their neighbors* 
wives. 

And one who loved his own. 
The first was Lancelot de Lac, 

The second Tristrem bold, 350 

The third was valiant Carodac, 

W^ho won the cup of gold 
What time, of all King Arthur's crew — 

Thereof came jeer and laugh — 
He, as the mate of lady true. 

Alone the cup could quaff. 
Though envy's tongue would fain surmise 

That, but for very shame. 
Sir Carodac to fight that prize 

Had given both cup and dame, 360 

Yet, since but one of that fair court 

Was true to wedlock's shrine. 
Brand him who will with base report, 

He shall be free from mine. 



CANTO SECOND 



297 



XIX 

* Now caracoled the steeds in air, 

Now plumes and pennons wantoned fair, 

As all around the lists so wide 

In panoply the champions ride. 

King Arthur saw with startled eye 

The flower of chivalry march by, 370 

The bulwark of the Christian creed. 

The kingdom's shield in hour of need. 

Too late he thought him of the woe 

Might from their civil conflict flow; 

For well he knew they would not part 

Till cold was many a gallant heart. 

His hasty vow he 'gan to rue, 

And Gyneth then apart he drew; 

To her his leading-staff resigned. 

But added caution grave and kind. 380 

XX 

* " Thou see'st, my child, as promise-bound, 
I bid the trump for tourney sound. 

Take thou my warder as the queen 

And umpire of the martial scene; 

But mark thou this : — as Beauty bright 

Is polar star to valiant knight. 

As at her word his sword he draws, 

His fairest guerdon her applause, 

So gentle maid should never ask 

Of knighthood vain and dangerous task; 390 

And Beauty's eyes should ever be 

Like the twin stars that soothe the sea. 

And Beauty's breath should whisper peace 

And bid the storm of battle cease. 

I tell thee this lest all too far 

These knights urge tourney into war. 

Blithe at the trumpet let them go. 

And fairly counter blow for blow; — 

No striplings these, who succor need 

For a razed helm or falling steed. 400 

But, Gyneth, when the strife grows 

warm 
And threatens death or deadly harm. 
Thy sire entreats, thy king commands. 
Thou drop the warder from thy hands. 
Trust thou thy father with thy fate. 
Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate; 
Nor be it said through Gyneth's pride 
A rose of Arthur's chaplet died." 

XXI 

* A proud and discontented glow 
O'ershadowed Gyneth's brow of snow; 410 

She put the warder by : — 
" Reserve thy boon, my liege," she said, 
" Thus chaffered down and limited, 



Debased and narrowed for a maid 

Of less degree than I. 
No petty chief but holds his heir 
At a more honored price and rare 

Than Britain's King holds me ! 
Although the sun-burned maid for dower 
Has but her father's rugged tower, 420 

His barren hill and lee." 
King Arthur swore, " By crown and sword. 
As belted knight and Britain's lord. 
That a whole summer's day should strive 
His knights, the bravest knights alive ! " 
" Recall thine oath I and to her glen 
Poor Gyneth can return agen; 
Not on thy daughter will the stain 
That soils thy sword and crown remain. 
But think not she will e'er be bride 430 

Save to the bravest, proved and tried; 
Pendragon's daughter will not fear 
For clashing sword or splintered spear. 

Nor shrink though blood should flow; 
And all too well sad Guendolen 
Hath taught the faithlessness of men 
That child of hers should pity when 

Their meed they undergo." 

XXII 

*He frowned and sighed, the monarch 

bold: — 
" I give — what I may not withhold ; 440 
For, not for danger, dread, or death. 
Must British Arthur break his faith. 
Too late I mark thy mother's art 
Hath taught thee this relentless part. 
I blame her not, for she had wroug. 
But not to these my faults belong. 
Use then the warder as thou wilt; 
But trust me that, if life be spilt. 
In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace, 
Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place." 450 
With that he turned his head aside, 
Nor brooked to gaze upon her pride. 
As with the truncheon raised she sate 
The arbitress of mortal fate; 
Nor brooked to mark in ranks disposed 
How the bold champions stood opposed, 
For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell 
Upon his ear like passing bell ! 
Then first from sight of martial fray 
Did Britain's hero turn away. 460 

XXIII 

' But Gyneth heard the clangor high 
As hears the hawk the partridge cry. 
O, blame her not ! the blood was hers 



298 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



That at the trumpet's summons stirs ! — 
And e'en the gentlest female eye 
Might the brave strife of chivalry 

Awhile untroubled view; 
So well accomplished was each knight 
To strike and to defend in fight, 
Their meeting was a goodly sight 470 

While plate and mail held true. 
The lists with painted plumes were strown, 
Upon the wind at random thrown, 
But helm and breastplate bloodless shone. 
It seemed their feathered crests alone 

Should this encounter rue. 
And ever, as the combat grows. 
The trumpet's cheery voice arose. 
Like lark's shrill song the flourish flows. 
Heard while the gale of April blows 480 

The merry greenwood through. 

XXIV 

* But soon to earnest grew their game. 
The spears drew blood, the swords struck 

flame, 
And, horse and man, to ground there 
came 

Knights who shall rise no more ! 
Gone was the pride the war that graced. 
Gay shields were cleft and crests defaced. 
And steel coats riven and helms unbraced. 

And pennons streamed with gore. 
Gone too were fence and fair array, 490 
And desperate strength made deadly way 
At random through the bloody fray. 
And blows were dealt with headlong sway. 

Unheeding where they fell; 
And now the trumpet's clamors seem 
Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream 
Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream. 

The sinking seaman's knell ! 

XXV 

* Seemed in this dismal hour that Fate 
Would Camlan's ruin antedate, 500 

And spare dark Mordred's crime; 
Already gasping on the ground 
Lie twenty of the Table Round, 

Of chivalry the prime. 
Arthur in anguish tore away 
From head and beard his tresses gray. 
And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay 

And quaked with ruth and fear; 
But still she deemed her mother's shade 
Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade 510 

The sign that had the slaughter staid, 

And chid the rising tear. 



Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell, 
Helias the White, and Lionel, 

And many a champion more; 
Rochemont and Dinadam are down, 
And Ferrand of the Forest Brown 

Lies gasping in his gore. 
Yanoc, by mighty Morolt pressed 
Even to the confines of the list, 52c 

Young Yanoc of the beardless face — 
Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race — 
O'erpowered at Gyneth's footstool bled. 
His heart's-blood dyed her sandals red. 
But then the sky was overcast, 
Then howled at once a whirlwind's blast. 

And, rent by sudden throes, 
Yawned in mid lists the quaking earth. 
And from the gulf — tremendous birth ! — 

The form of Merlin rose. 530 

XXVI 

* Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed 
The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, 

And sternly raised his hand: — 
"Madmen," he said, "your strife for- 
bear ! 
And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear 
The doom thy fates demand ! 
Long shall close in stony sleep 
Eyes for ruth that would not weep; 
Iron lethargy shall seal 
Heart that pity scorned to feel. 
Yet, because thy mother's art 
Warped thine unsuspicious heart. 
And for love of Arthur's race 
Punishment is blent with grace. 
Thou shalt bear thy penance lone 
In the Valley of Saint John, 
And this weird shall overtake thee; 
Sleep until a knight shall wake thee. 
For feats of arms as far renowned 
As warrior of the Table Round. 
Long endurance of thy slumber 
Well may teach the world to number 
All their woes from Gyneth's pride. 
When the Red Cross champions died." 

XXVII 

* As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye 
Slumber's load begins to lie; 

Fear and anger vainly strive 

Still to keep its light alive. 

Twice with effort and with pause 

O'er her brow her hand she draws; 560 

Twice her strength in vain she tries 

Froni the fatal chair to rise; 



540 



550 



CANTO SECOND 



299 



Merlin's magic doom is spoken, 

Vanoc's death must now be wroken. 

Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall, 

Curtaining each azure ball, 

Slowly as on summer eves 

Violets fold their dusky leaves. 

The weighty baton of command 

Now bears down her sinking hand, 570 

On her shoulder droops her head; 

Net of pearl and golden thread 

Bursting gave her locks to flow 

O'er her arm and breast of snow. 

And so lovely seemed she there, 

Spell-bound in her ivory chair, 

That her angry sire repenting, 

Craved stern Merlin for relenting. 

And the champions for her sake 

Would again the contest wake; 580 

Till in necromantic night 

Gyneth vanished from their sight. 

XXVIII 
* Still she bears her weird alone 
In the Valley of Saint John; 
And her semblance oft will seem. 
Mingling in a champion's dream, 
Of her weary lot to plain 
And crave his aid to burst her chain. 
While her wondrous tale was new 
Warriors to her rescue drew, 590 

East and west, and south and north. 
From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth. 
Most have sought in vain the glen. 
Tower nor castle could they ken; 
Not at every time or tide, 
Nor by every eye, descried. 
Fast and vigil must be borne. 
Many a night in watching worn. 
Ere an eye of mortal powers 
Can discern those magic towers. 600 

Of the persevering few 
Some from hopeless task withdrew 
When they read the dismal threat 
Graved upon the gloomy gate. 
Few have braved the yawning door. 
And those few returned no more. 
In the lapse of time forgot, 
Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot; 
Sound her sleep as in the tomb 
Till wakened by the trump of doom. 610 

END OF LYULPH'S TALE 



Here pause, my tale; for all too soon. 
My Lucy, comes the hour of noou. 



Already from thy lofty dome 
Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam, 
And each, to kill the goodly day 
That God has granted them, his way 
Of lazy sauntering has sought; 

Lordlings and witlings not a few, 
Incapable of doing aught. 

Yet ill at ease with nought to do. 620 
Here is no longer place for me; 
For, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see 
Some phantom fashionably thin. 
With limb of lath and kerchiefed chin. 
And lounging gape or sneering grin. 
Steal sudden on our privacy. 
And how should I, so humbly born, 
Endure the graceful spectre's scorn ? 
Faith ! ill, I fear, while conjuring wand 
Of English oak is hard at hand. 630 

II 

Or grant the hour be all too soon 

For Hessian boot and pantaloon. 

And grant the lounger seldom strays 

Beyond the smooth and gravelled maze. 

Laud we the gods that Fashion's train 

Holds hearts of more adventurous strain. 

Artists are hers who scorn to trace 

Their rules from Nature's boundless grace. 

But their right paramount assert 

To limit her by pedant art, 640 

Damning whate'er of vast and fair 

Exceeds a canvas three feet square. 

This thicket, for their gumption fit, 

May furnish such a happy hit. 

Bards too are hers, wont to recite 

Their own sweet lays by waxen light. 

Half in the salver's tingle drowned. 

While the cJiasse-cafe glides around ; 

And such may hither secret stray 

To labor an extempore: 65« 

Or sportsman with his boisterous hollo 

May here his wiser spaniel follow, 

Or stage-struck Juliet may presume 

To choose this bower for tiring-room; 

And we alike must shun regard 

From painter, player, sportsman, bard. 

Insects that skim in fashion's sky. 

Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly, 

Lucy, have all alarms for us, 

For all can hum and all can buzz. 660 

III 
Hut O, my Lucy, say how long 
Wc still must dread this trifling throng, 
And stoop to hide with coward art 
The genuine feelings of the heart I 



300 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



No parents thine whose just command 
Should rule their child's obedient hand; 
Thy guardians with contending voice 
Press each his individual choice. 
And which is Lucy's ? — Can it be 
That puny fop, trimmed cap-a-pee, 670 

Who loves in the saloon to show 
The arms that never knew a foe; 
Whose sabre trails along the ground, 
Whose legs in shapeless boots are drowned; 
A new Achilles, sure — the steel 
Fled from his breast to fence his heel; 
One, for the simple manly grace 
That wont to deck our martial race, 

Who comes in foreign trashery 

Of tinkling chain and spur, 680 

A walking haberdashery 
Of feathers, lace, and fur: 
In Rowley's antiquated phrase, 
Horse-milliner of modern days ? 

IV 

Or is it he, the wordy youth, 

So early trained for statesman's 
part. 

Who talks of honor, faith and truth. 
As themes that he has got by heart; 
Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach, 
Whose logic is from Single-speech; 690 

Who scorns the meanest thought to vent 
Save in the phrase of Parliament; 
Who, in a tale of cat and mouse. 
Calls * order,' and * divides the house,' 
Who * craves permission to reply,' 
Whose * noble friend is in his eye ; ' 
Whose loving tender some have reckoned 
A motion you should gladly second ? 



What, neither ? Can there be a third, 

To such resistless swains preferred ? — 700 

O why, my Lucy, turn aside 

With that quick glance of injured pride ? 

Forgive me, love, I cannot bear 

That altered and resentful air. 

Were all the wealth of Russel mine 

And all the rank of Howard's line. 

All would I give for leave to dry 

That dew-drop trembling in thine eye. 

Think not I fear such fops can wile 

From Lucy more than careless smile; 710 

But yet if wealth and high degree 

Give gilded counters currency. 

Must I not fear when rank and birth 



Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth ? 
Nobles there are whose martial fires 
Rival the fame that raised their sires, 
And patriots, skilled through storms of 

fate 
To guide and guard the reeling state. 
Such, such there are — If such should 

come, 
Arthur must tremble and be dumb, 729 

Self-exiled seek some distant shore. 
And mourn till life and grief are o'er. 

VI 

What sight, what signal of alarm, 
That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm ? 
Or is it that the rugged way 
Makes Beauty lean on lover's stay ? 
O, no ! for on the vale and brake 
Nor sight nor sounds of danger wake, 
And this trim sward of velvet green 
Were carpet for the Fairy Queen. 730 

That pressure slight was but to tell 
That Lucy loves her Arthur well. 
And fain would banish from his mind 
Suspicious fear and doubt unkind. 

VII 

But wouldst thou bid the demons fly 
Like mist before the dawning sky, 
There is but one resistless spell — 
Say, wilt thou guess or must I tell ? 
'T were hard to name in minstrel phrase 
A landaulet and four blood-bays, 740 

But bards agree this wizard band 
Can but be bound in Northern land. 
'Tis there — nay, draw not back thy 

hand ! — 
'T is there this slender finger round 
Must golden amulet be bound. 
Which, blessed with many a holy prayer, 
Can change to rapture lovers' care, 
And doubt and jealousy shall die, 
And fears give place to ecstasy. 



VIII 

Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long 
Has been thy lover's tale and song. 
O, why so silent, love, I pray ? 
Have I not spoke the livelong day ? 
And will not Lucy deign to say 

One word her friend to bless ? 
I ask but one — a simple sound, 
Within three little letters bound — 

O, let the word be YES ! 



75* 



CANTO THIRD: INTRODUCTION 



301 



CANTO THIRD 



INTRODUCTION 



Long loved, long wooed, and lately won, 
My life's best hope, and now mine own ! 
Doth not this rude and Alpine glen 
Recall our favorite haunts agen ? 
A wild resemblance we can trace. 
Though reft of every softer grace, 
As the rough warrior's brow may bear 
A likeness to a sister fair. 
Full well advised our Highland host 
That this wild pass on foot be crossed, 10 
While round Ben-Cruach's mighty base 
Wheel the slow steeds and lingering 

chase. 
The keen old carle, with Scottish pride 
He praised his glen and mountains wide; 
An eye he bears for nature's face. 
Ay, and for woman's lovely grace. 
Even in such mean degree we find 
The subtle Scot's observing mind; 
For nor the chariot nor the train 
Could gape of vulgar wonder gain, 20 

But when old Allan would expound 
Of Beal-na-paish the Celtic sound. 
His bonnet doffed and bow applied 
His legend to my bonny bride; 
While Lucy blushed beneath his eye, 
Courteous and cautious, shrewd and sly. 

II 

Enough of him. — Now, ere we lose. 
Plunged in the vale, the distant views. 
Turn thee, my love ! look back once 

more 
To the blue lake's retiring shore. 30 

On its smooth breast the shadows seem 
Like objects in a morning dream. 
What time the slumberer is aware 
He sleeps and all the vision 's air: 
Even so on yonder liquid lawn. 
In hues of bright reflection drawn. 
Distinct the shaggy mountains lie, 
Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky; 
The summer-clouds so plain we note 
That we might count each dappled spot: 40 
We gaze and we admire, yet know 
The scene is all delusive show. 
Such dreams of bliss would Arthur draw 
When first his Lucy's form he saw. 
Yet sighed and sickened as he drew. 
Despairing they could e'er prove true ! 



Ill 



But, Lucy, turn thee now to view 

Up the fair glen our destined way: 
The fairy path that we pursue. 
Distinguished but by greener hue, 50 

Winds round the purple brae. 
While Alpine flowers of varied dye 
For carpet serve or tapestry. 
See how the little runnels leap 
In threads of silver down the steep 

To swell the brooklet's moan J 
Seems that the Highland Naiad grieves, 
Fantastic while her crown she weaves 
Of rowan, birch, and alder leaves. 

So lovely and so lone. 60 

There 's no illusion there ; these flowers. 
That wailing brook, these lovely bowers, 

Are, Lucy, all our own; 
And, since thine Arthur called thee wife. 
Such seems the prospect of his life, 
A lovely path on-winding still 
By gurgling brook and sloping hill. 
'T is true that mortals cannot tell 
What waits them in the distant dell; 
But be it hap or be it harm, 70 

We tread the pathway arm in arm. 

IV 

And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why 

I could thy bidding twice deny. 

When twice you prayed I would again 

Resume the legendary strain 

Of the bold knight of Triermain ? 

At length yon peevish vow you swore 

That you would sue to me no more. 

Until the minstrel fit drew near 

And made me prize a listening ear. 80 

But, loveliest, when thou first didst pray 

Continuance of the knightly lay. 

Was it not on the happy day 

That made thy hand mine own ? 
When, dizzied with mine ecstasy, 
Nought past, or present, or to be. 
Could I or think on, hear, or see. 

Save, Lucy, thee alone ! 
A giddy draught my rapture was 
As ever chemist's magic gas. 90 



Again the summons I denied 

In yon fair capital of Clyde: 

My harp — or let me rather choose 

The good old classic form — my Muse — 

For harp 's an over-scutched pliraso, 

Worn out by bards of modern days — 



302 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



My Muse, then — seldom will she wake, 

Save by dim wood and silent lake; 

She is the wild and rustic maid 

Whose foot uusandalled loves to tread lo 

Where the soft greensward is inlaid 

With varied moss and thyme; 
And, lest the simple lily-braid, 
That coronets her temples, fade, 
She hides her still in greenwood shade 

To meditate her rhyme. 

VI 

And now she comes ! The murmur dear 
Of the wild brook hath caught her ear. 

The glade hath won her eye; 
She longs to join with each blithe rill n 
That dances down the Highland hill 

Her blither melody. 
And now my Lucy's way to cheer 
She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes hear 
How closed the tale my love whilere 

Loved for its chivalry. 
List how she tells in notes of flame 
* Child Roland to the dark tower came ! ' 



CANTO THIRD 



Bewcastle now must keep the hold, 

Speir- Adam's steeds must bide in stall. 
Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold 

Must only shoot from battled wall; 
And Liddesdale may buckle spur. 

And Teviot now may belt the brand, 
Tarras and Ewes keep nightly stir. 

And Eskdale foray Cumberland. 
Of wasted fields and plundered flocks 

The Borderers bootless may complain; lo 
They lack the sword of brave De Yaux, 

There comes no aid from Triermain. 
That lord on high adventure bound 

Hath wandered forth alone. 
And day and night keeps watchful round 

In the Valley of Saint John. 



When first began his vigil bold 

The moon twelve summer nights was old 

And shone both fair and full; 
High in the vault of cloudless blue, 20 

O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw 

Her light composed and cool. 
Stretched on the brown hill's heathy breast, 

Sir Roland eyed the vale ; 



Chief where, distinguished from the rest, 
Those clustering rocks upreared their 

crest. 
The dwelling of the fair distressed. 

As told gray Lyulph's tale. 
Thus as he lay, the lamp of night 
Was quivering on his armor bright 30 

In beams that rose and fell, 
And danced upon his buckler's boss 
That lay beside him on the moss 

As on a crystal well. 

Ill 
Ever he watched and oft he deemed, 
While on the mound the moonlight 
streamed. 

It altered to his eyes; 
Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan change 
To buttressed walls their shapeless range. 
Fain think by transmutation strange 40 

He saw gray turrets rise. 
But scarce his heart with hope throbbed 

high 
Before the wild illusions fly 

Which fancy had conceived, 
Abetted by an anxious eye 

That longed to be deceived. 
It was a fond deception all. 
Such as in solitary hall 

Beguiles the musing eye 
When, gazing on the sinking fire, 50 

Bulwark, and battlement, and spire 

In the red gulf we spy. 
For, seen by moon of middle night. 
Or by the blaze of noontide bright. 
Or by the dawn of morning light. 

Or evening's western flame, 
In every tide, at every hour, 
In mist, in sunshine, and in shower, 

The rocks remained the same. 

IV 

Oft has he traced the charmed mound, 60 
Oft climbed its crest or paced it round, 

Yet nothing might explore, 
Save that the crags so rudely piled, 
At distance seen, resemblance wild 

To a rough fortress bore. 
Yet still his watch the warrior keeps, 
Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps, 

And drinks but of the well; 
Ever by day he walks the hill, 
And when the evening gale is chill 70 

He seeks a rocky cell. 
Like hermit poor to bid his bead, 



CANTO THIRD 



303 



And tell his Ave and his Creed, 
Invoking every saint at need 
For aid to burst his spell. 



And now the moon her orb has hid 
And dwindled to a silver thread, 

Dim seen in middle heaven, 
While o'er its curve careering fast 
Before the fury of the blast 80 

The midnight clouds are driven. 
The brooklet raved, for on the hills 
The upland showers had swoln the rills 

And down the torrents came; 
Muttered the distant thunder dread, 
And frequent o'er the vale was spread 

A sheet of lightning flame. 
De Vaux within his mountain cave — 
No human step the storm durst brave — 
To moody meditation gave 90 

Each faculty of soul. 
Till, lulled by distant torrent sound 
And the sad winds that whistled round, 
Upon his thoughts in musing drowned 

A broken slumber stole. 

VI 

'T was then was heard a heavy sound — 

Sound, strange and fearful there to hear, 
'Mongst desert hills where leagues around 

Dwelt but the gorcock and the deer. 
As, starting from his couch of fern, 100 

Again he heard in clangor stern 

That deep and solemn swell. 
Twelve times in measured tone it spoke. 
Like some proud minster's pealing clock 

Or city's larum-bell. 
What thought was Roland's first when 

fell 
In that deep wilderness the knell 

Upon his startled ear ? 
To slander warrior were I loath. 
Yet must I hold my minstrel troth — no 

It was a thought of fear. 

VII 
But lively was the mingled thrill 
That chased that momentary chill. 

For Love's keen wish was there, 
And eager Hope, and Valor high. 
And the proud glow of Chivalry 

That burned to do and dare. 
Forth from the cave tlie warrior rushed, 
Long ere the mountain-voice was hushed 

That answered to the kuell; 120 



For long and far the unwonted sound, 
Eddying in echoes round and round, 

Was tossed from fell to fell; 
And Glaramara answer flung. 
And Grisdale-pike responsive rung. 
And Legbert heights their echoes swung 

As far as Derwent's dell. 

VIII 
Forth upon trackless darkness gazed 
The knight, bedeafened and amazed. 

Till all was hushed and still, 130 

Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar. 
And the night-blast that wildly bore 

Its course along the hill. 
Then on the northern sky there came 
A light as of reflected flame, 

And over Legbert-head, 
As if by magic art controlled, 
A mighty meteor slowly rolled 

Its orb of fiery red; 
Thou wouldst have thought some demon dire 
Came mounted on that car of fire 141 

To do his errand dread. 
Far on the sloping valley's course. 
On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse. 
Shingle and Scrae, and Fell and Force, 

A dusky light arose: 
Displayed, yet altered was the scene; 
Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen, 
Even the gay thicket's summer green. 

In bloody tincture glows. 150 

IX 

De Vaux had marked the sunbeams set 
At eve upon the coronet 

Of that enchanted mound. 
And seen but crags at random flung. 
That, o'er the brawling torrent hung, 

In desolation frowned. 
What sees he by that meteor's lour ? — 
A bannered castle, keep, and tower 

Return the lurid gleam. 
With battled walls and buttress fast, 160 
And barbican and ballium vast, ^ 

And airy flanking towers that cast 

Their shadows on the stream. 
'T is no deceit ! distinctly clear 
Cienell and parapet appear, 
While o'er the pile that meteor drear 

Makes momentary pause; 
Then forth its solemn path it drew. 
And fainter yet and fainter grew 
Those gloomy towers upon the view, 17c 

As its wild light withdraws. 



304 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



Forth from the cave did Roland rush, 
O'er crag and stream, through brier and 
bush; 

Yet far he had not sped 
Ere sunk was that portentous light 
Behind the hills and utter night 

Was on the valley spread. 
He paused perforce and blew his horn, 
And, on the mountain-echoes borne. 

Was heard an answering sound, i8o 

A wild and lonely trumpet note, — 
In middle air it seemed to float 

High o'er the battled mound; 
And sounds were heard as when a guard 
Of some proud castle, holding ward. 

Pace forth their nightly round. 
The valiant Knight of Triermain 
Rung forth his challenge-blast again. 

But answer came there none; 
And mid the mingled wind and rain 190 
Darkling he sought the vale in vain. 

Until the dawning shone; 
And when it dawned that wondrous 

sight 
Distinctly seen by meteor light, 

It all had passed away ! 
And that enchanted mount once more 
A pile of granite fragments bore 

As at the close of day. 

XI 

Steeled for the deed, De Vaux's heart 
Scorned from his vent'rous quest to 
part 200 

He walks the vale once more; 
But only sees by night or day 
That shattered pile of rocks so gray. 

Hears but the torrent's roar: 
Till when, through hills of azure borne. 
The moon renewed her silver horn, 
Just at the time her waning ray 
Had faded in the dawning day, 

A summer mist arose; 
Adown the vale the vapors float, 210 

And cloudy undulations moat 
That tufted mound of mystic note, 

As round its base they close. 
And higher now the fleecy tide 
Ascends its stern and shaggy side, 
Until the airy billows hide 

The rock's majestic isle; 
It seemed a veil of filmy lawn. 
By some fantastic fairy drawn 

Around enchanted pile. 320 



XII 

The breeze came softly down the brooky 

And, sighing as it blew. 
The veil of silver mist it shook 
And to De Vaux's eager look 

Renewed that wondrous view. 
For, though the loitering vapor braved 
The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved 

Its mantle's dewy fold; 
And still when shook that filmy screen 
Were towers and bastions dimly seen, 23c 
And Gothic battlements between 

Their gloomy length unrolled. 
Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye 
Once more the fleeting vision die ! — 

The gallant knight 'gan speed 
As prompt and light as, when the hound 
Is opening and the horn is wound. 

Careers the hunter's steed. 
Down the steep dell his course amain 

Hath rivalled archer's shaft; 240 

But ere the mound he could attain 
The rocks their shapeless form regain, 
And, mocking loud his labor vain. 

The mountain spirits laughed. 
Far up the echoing dell was borne 
Their wild unearthly shout of scorn. 

XIII 

Wroth waxed the warrior. — * Am I then 

Fooled by the enemies of men. 

Like a poor hind whose homeward way 

Is haunted by malicious fay ? 250 

Is Triermain become your taunt, 

De Vaux your scorn ? False fiends, 

avaunt ! ' 
A weighty curtal-axe he bare; 
The baleful blade so bright and square, 
And the tough shaft of heben wood, 
Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued. 
Backward his stately form he drew, 
And at the rocks the weapon threw 
Just where one crag's projected crest 
Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest. 260 
Hurled with main force the weapon's shock 
Rent a huge fragment of the rock. 
If by mere strength, 't were hard to tell. 
Or if the blow dissolved some spell. 
But down the headlong ruin came 
With cloud of dust and flash of flame. 
Down bank, o'er bush, its course was 

borne. 
Crushed lay the copse, the earth was torn. 
Till staid at length the ruin dread 
Cumbered the torrent's rocky bed, 270 



CANTO THIRD 



305 



And bade the waters' high-swoln tide 
Seek other passage for its pride. 

XIV 

When ceased that thunder Triermain 
Surveyed the mound's rude front again; 
And lo ! the ruin had laid bare, 
Hewn in the stone, a winding stair 
Whose mossed and fractured steps might 

lend 
The means the summit to ascend; 
And by whose aid the brave De Vsmx 
Began to scale these magic rocks, 280 

And soon a platform won 
Where, the wild witchery to close, 
Within three lances' length arose 

The Castle of Saint John ! 
No misty phantom of the air. 
No meteor- blazoned show was there; 
In morning splendor full and fair 

The massive fortress shone. 

XV 

Embattled high and proudly towered. 
Shaded by ponderous flankers, lowered 290 

The portal's gloomy way. 
Though for six hundred years and more 
Its strength had brooked the tempest's 

roar. 
The scutcheoned emblems which it bore 

Had suffered no decay: 
But from the eastern battlement 
A turret had made sheer descent, 
And, down in recent ruin rent, 

In the mid torrent lay. 
Else, o'er the castle's brow sublime, 300 
Insults of violence or of time 

Unfelt had passed away. 
In shapeless characters of yore. 
The gate this stern inscription bore: 

XVI 
INSCRIPTION 

* Patience waits the destined day, 

Strength can clear the cumbered way. 

Warrior, who hast waited long. 

Firm of soul, of sinew strong. 

It is given to thee to gaze 

On the pile of ancient days. 310 

Never mortal builder's hand 

This enduring fabric planned; 

Sign and sigil, word of power, 

From the earth raised keep and tower. 

View it o'er and pace it round. 



Rampart, turret, battled mound. 
Dare no more ! To cross the gate 
Were to tamper with thy fate; 
Strength and fortitude were vain. 
View it o'er — and turn again.' 



320 



XVII 



* That would I,' said the warrior bold, 

* If that my frame were bent and old. 
And my thin blood dropped slow and cold 

As icicle in thaw; 
But while my heart can feel it dance 
Blithe as the sparkling wine of France, 
And this good arm wields sword or lance, 

I mock these words of awe ! ' 
He said; the wicket felt the sway 
Of his strong hand and straight gave 
way, 33(? 

And with rude crash and jarring bray 

The rusty bolts withdraw; 
But o'er the threshold as he strode 
And forward took the vaulted road, 
An unseen arm with force amain 
The ponderous gate flung close again, 

And rusted bolt and bar 
Spontaneous took their place once more 
While the deep arch with sullen roar 

Returned their surly jar. 340 

* Now closed is the gin and the prey within, 

By the Rood of Lanercost ! 
But he that would win the war-wolf's skin 

May rue him of his boast.' 
Thus muttering on the warrior went 
By dubious light down steep descent. 

XVIII 
Unbarred, unlocked, unwatched, a port 
Led to the castle's outer court: 
There the main fortress, broad and tall. 
Spread its long range of bower and hall 350 

And towers of varied size, 
Wrought with each ornament extreme 
That Gothic art in wildest dream 

Of fancy could devise; 
But full between the warrior's way 
And the main portal arch there lay 
An inner moat; 
Nor bridge nor boat 
Affords De Vaux the means to cross 
The clear, profound, and silent fosse. 360 
His arms aside in haste he flings, 
Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings, 
And down falls helm and down the shield, 
Rough with the dints of many a field. 
Fair was his manly form and fair 



3o6 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



His keen dark eye aud close curled hair, 
When all unarmed save that the brand 
Of well-proved metal graced his hand, 
With nought to fence his dauntless breast 
But the close gipon's uuder-vest, 370 

Whose sullied buff the sable stains 
Of hauberk aud of mail retains, — 
Roland De Vaux upon the brim 
Of the broad moat stood prompt to swim. 

XIX 

Accoutred thus he dared the tide. 
And soon he reached the farther side 

And entered soon the hold, 
And paced a hall whose walls so wide 
Were blazoned all with feats of pride 

By warriors done of old. 380 

In middle lists they countered here 

While trumpets seemed to blow; 
And there in den or desert drear 

They quelled gigantic foe. 
Braved the fierce griffon in his ire, 
Or faced the dragon's breath of fire. 
Strange in their arms and strange in 

face. 
Heroes they seemed of ancient race. 
Whose deeds of arms and race and name. 
Forgotten long by later fame, 390 

Were here depicted to appall 
Those of an age degenerate 
Whose bold intrusion braved their fate 

In this enchanted hall. 
For some short space the venturous knight 
With these high marvels fed his sight, 
Then sought the chamber's upper end 
Where three broad easy steps ascend 

To an arched portal door. 
In whose broad folding leaves of state 400 
Was framed a wicket window-grate; 

And ere he ventured more. 
The gallant knight took earnest view 
The grated wicket-window through. 

XX 

O, for his arms ! Of martial weed 
Had never mortal knight such need ! — 
He spied a stately gallery; all 
Of snow-white marble was the wall. 

The vaulting, and the floor; 
And, contrast strange ! on either hand 410 
There stood arrayed in sable band 

Four maids whom Afric bore; 
And each a Lybian tiger led, 
Held by as bright and frail a thread 

As Lucy's golden hair, 



For the leash that bound these monsters 
dread 

Was but of gossamer. 
Each maiden's short barbaric vest 
Left all unclosed the knee and breast 

And limbs of shapely jet; 420 

White was their vest and turban's fold, 
On arms and ankles rings of gold 

In savage pomp were set; 
A quiver on their shoulders lay. 
And in their hand an assagay. 
Such and so silent stood they there 

That Roland wellnigh hoped 
He saw a band of statues rare, 
Stationed the gazer's soul to scare; 

But when the wicket oped 430 

Each grisly beast 'gan upward draw. 
Rolled his grim eye, and spread his claw. 
Scented the air, and licked his jaw; 
While these weird maids in Moorish 

tongue 
A wild and dismal warning sung. 

XXI 

* Rash adventurer, bear thee back ! 

Dread the spell of Dahomay ! 
Fear the race of Zaharak; 

Daughters of the burning day ! 

' When the whirlwind's gusts are wheeling, 

Ours it is the dance to braid; 441 

Zarah's sands in pillars reeling 

eloin the measure that we tread, 
When the Moon has donned her cloak 

And the stars are red to see. 
Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, 

Music meet for such as we. 

* Where the shattered columns lie, 

Showing Carthage once had been, 
If the wandering Santon's eye 45a 

Our mysterious rites hath seen, — 
Oft he cons the prayer of death, 

To the nations preaches doom, 
" Azrael's brand hath left the sheath, 

Moslems, think upon the tomb ! " 

* Ours the scorpion, ours the snake, 

Ours the h^^dra of the fen. 
Ours the tiger of the brake. 

All that plague the sons of men. 
Ours the tempest's midnight wrack, 460 

Pestilence that wastes by day — 
Dread the race of Zaharak ! 

Fear the spell of Dahomay ! ' 



CANTO THIRD 



307 



XXII 
Uncouth and strange the accents shrill 

Rung those vaulted roofs among, 
Long it was ere faint and still 

Died the far-resounding song. 
While yet the distant echoes roll, 
The warrior communed with his soul. 

*When first I took this venturous 
quest, 470 

I swore upon the rood 

Neither to stop nor turn nor rest, 
For evil or for good. 
My forward path too well I ween 
Lies yonder fearful ranks between; 
For man unarmed 't is bootless hope 
With tigers and with fiends to cope — 
Yet, if I turn, what waits me there 
Save famine dire and fell despair ? — 
Other conclusion let me try, 480 

Since, choose however I list, I die. 
Forward lies faifh and knightly fame; 
Behind are perjury and shame. 
In life or death I hold my word ! ' 
With that he drew his trusty sword. 
Caught down a banner from the wall, 
And entered thus the fearful hall. 

XXIII 
On high each wayward maiden threw 
Her swarthy arm with wild halloo ! 
On either side a tiger sprung — 49° 

Against the leftward foe he flung 
The ready banner to engage 
With tangling folds the brutal rage; 
The right-hand monster in mid air 
He struck so fiercely and so fair 
Through gullet and through spinal bone 
The trenchant blade hath sheerly gone. 
His grisly brethren ramped and yelled, 
But the slight leash their rage withheld. 
Whilst 'twixt their ranks the dangerous 
road 500 

Firmly though swift the champion strode. 
Safe to the gallery's bound he drew, 
Safe passed an open portal through; 
And when against pursuit he flung 
The gate, judge if the echoes rung ! 
Onward his daring course he bore. 
While, mixed with dying growl and roar. 
Wild jubilee and loud hurra 
Pursued him on his venturous way. 



XXIV 

'Hurra, hurra ! Our watch is done I 
We hail once more the tropic sun. 



510 



Pallid beams of northern day. 
Farewell, farewell ! Hurra, hurra ! 

* Five hundred years o'er this cold glen 
Hath the pale sun come round agen; 
Foot of man till now hath ne'er 
Dared to cross the Hall of Fear. 

' Warrior ! thou whose dauntless heart 
Gives us from our ward to part. 
Be as strong in future trial 520 

Where resistance is denial. 

' Now for Afric's glowing sky, 
Zwenga wide and Atlas high, 
Zaharak and Dahomay ! — 
Mount the winds ! Hurra, hurra ! ' 

XXV 

The wizard song at distance died. 

As if in ether borne astray. 
While through waste halls and chambers 
wide 

The knight pursued his steady way 
Till to a lofty dome he came 530 

That flashed with such a brilliant flame 
As if the wealth of all the world 
Were there in rich confusion hurled. 
For here the gold in sandy heaps 
With duller earth incorporate sleeps; 
Was there in ingots piled, and there 
Coined badge of empery it bare; 
Yonder, huge bars of silver lay. 
Dimmed by the diamond's neighboring 

Like the pale moon m mornmg day; 540 
And in the midst four maidens stand. 
The daughters of some distant land. 
Their hue was of the dark-red dye 
That fringes oft a thunder sky; 
Their hands palmetto baskets bare. 
And cotton fillets bound their hair; 
Slim was their form, their mien was 

shy. 
To earth they bent the humbled eye. 
Folded their arms, and suppliant kneeled. 
And thus their proffered gifts revealed. 550 

XXVI 
CHORUS 

' See the treasures Merlin piled. 
Portion meet for Arthur's child. 
Bathe in Wealth's unbounded stream, 
Wcilth that Avarice ne'er could dream I ' 



3o8 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



FIRST MAIDEN 

* See these clots of virgin gold ! 
Severed from the sparry mould, 
Nature's mystic alchemy 

In the mine thus bade them lie; 

And their orient smile can win 

Kings to stoop and saints to sin.' 560 

SECOND MAIDEN 

*See these pearls that long have slept; 
These were tears by Naiads wept 
For the loss of Marinel. 
Tritons in the silver shell 
Treasured them till hard and white 
As the teeth of Amphitrite.' 

THIRD MAIDEN 

* Does a livelier hue delight ? 
Here are rubies blazing bright, 
Here the emerald's fairy green, 

And the topaz glows between; 570 

Here their varied hues unite 
In the changeful chrysolite.' 

FOURTH MAIDEN 

* Leave these gems of poorer shine. 
Leave them all and look on mine ! 
While their glories I expand 
Shade thine eyebrows with thy hand. 
Mid-day sun and diamond's blaze 
Blind the rash beholder's gaze.' 

CHORUS 

* Warrior, seize the splendid store ; 
Would 't were all our mountains bore ! 580 
We should ne'er in future story 

Read, Peru, thy perished glory ! ' 

XXVII 

Calmly and unconcerned the knight 
Waved aside the treasures bright — 

* Gentle Maidens, rise, I pray ! 
Bar not thus my destined way. 
Let these boasted brilliant toys 
Braid the hair of girls and boys ! 
Bid your streams of gold expand 

O'er proud London's thirsty land. 590 

De Vaux of wealth saw never need 
Save to purvey him arms and steed. 
And all the ore he deigned to hoard 
Inlays his helm and hilts his sword.' 
Thus gently parting from their hold. 
He left unmoved the dome of gold. 



XXVIII 

And now the morning sun was high, 
De Vaux was weary, faint, and dry; 
When, lo ! a plashing sound he hears, 
A gladsome signal that he nears 600 

Some frolic water-run: 
And soon he reached a courtyard square 
Where, dancing in the sultry air. 
Tossed high aloft a fountain fair 

Was sparkling in the sun. 
On right and left a fair arcade 
In long perspective view displayed 
Alleys and bowers for sun or shade: 

But full in front a door. 
Low - browed and dark, seemed as it 
led 610 

To the lone dwelling of the dead 

Whose memory was no more. 

XXIX 

Here stopped De Vaux an instant's space 
To bathe his parched lips and face, 

And marked with well-pleased eye. 
Refracted on the fountain stream. 
In rainbow hues the dazzling beam 

Of that gay summer sky. 
His senses felt a mild control. 
Like that which lulls the weary soul, 020 

From contemplation high 
Relaxing, when the ear receives 
The music that the greenwood leaves 

Make to the breezes' sigh. 

XXX 

And oft in such a dreamy mood 

The half-shut eye can frame 
Fair apparitions in the wood. 
As if the Nymphs of field and flood 

In gay procession came. 
Are these of such fantastic mould, 630 

Seen distant down the fair arcade, 
These maids enlinked in sister-fold. 

Who, late at bashful distance staid, 

Now tripping from the greenwood shade, 
Nearer the musing champion draw. 
And in a pause of seeming awe 

Again stand doubtful now ? — 
Ah, that sly pause of witching powers ! 
That seems to say, * To please be ours, 

Be yours to tell us how.' 646 

Their hue was of the golden glow 
That sons of Candahar bestow, 
O'er which in slight suffusion flows 
A frequent tinge of paly rose; 
Their limbs were fashioned fair and free 



CANTO THIRD 



309 



In nature's justest symmetry; 

And, wreathed with flowers, with odors 

graced, 
Their raven ringlets reached the waist: 
In eastern pomp its gilding pale 
The henna lent each shapely nail, 650 

And the dark sumah gave the eye 
More liquid and more lustrous dye. 
The spotless veil of misty lawn, 
In studied disarrangement drawn 

The form and bosom o'er, 
To win the eye or tempt the touch. 
For modesty showed all too much — 

Too much — yet promised more. 

XXXI 

* Gentle knight, awhile delay,' 

Thus they sung, * thy toilsome way, 660 

While we pay the duty due 

To our Master and to you. 

Over Avarice, over Fear, 

Love triumphant led thee here ; 

Warrior, list to us, for we 

Are slaves to Love, are friends to thee. 

Though no treasured gems have we 

To proffer on the bended knee. 

Though we boast nor arm nor heart 

For the assagay or dart, 670 

Swains allow each simple girl 

Ruby lip and teeth of pearl; 

Or, if dangers more you prize. 

Flatterers find them in our eyes. 

* Stay, then, gentle warrior, stay, 
Rest till evening steal on day; 
Stay, O, stay ! — in yonder bowers 
We will braid thy locks with flowers. 
Spread the feast and fill the wine. 
Charm thy ear with sounds divine, 680 
Weave our dances till delight 

Yield to languor, day to night. 
Then shall she you most approve 
Sing the lays that best you love, 
Soft thy mossy couch shall spread. 
Watch thy pillow, prop thy head. 
Till the weary night be o'er — 
Gentle warrior, wouldst thou more. 
Wouldst thou more, fair warrior, — she 
Is slave to Love and slave to thee.' 690 

XXXII 

O, do not hold it for a crime 
In the bold hero of my rhyme, 

For Stoic look 

And meet rebuke 
He lacked the heart or time ; 



As round the band of sirens trip, 
He kissed one damsel's laughing lip. 
And pressed another's proffered hand, 
Spoke to them all in accents bland, 
But broke their magic circle through; ycx) 

* Kind maids,' he said, * adieu, adieu ! 
My fate, my fortune, forward lies.' 
He said and vanished from their eyes; 
But, as he dared that darksome way, 
Still heard behind their lovely lay: 

* Fair Flower of Courtesy, depart ! 
Go where the feelings of the heart 
With the warm pulse in concord move; 
Go where Virtue sanctions Love ! ' 

XXXIII 

Downward De Vaux through darksome 
ways 710 

And ruined vaults has gone, 

Till issue from their wildered maze 
Or safe retreat seemed none. 

And e'en the dismal path he strays 
Grew worse as he went on. 
For cheerful sun, for living air. 
Foul vapors rise and mine-fires glare. 
Whose fearful light the dangers showed 
That dogged him on that dreadful road. 
Deep pits and lakes of waters dun 720 

They showed, but showed not how to 

shun. 
These scenes of desolate despair. 
These smothering clouds of poisoned air. 
How gladly had De Vaux exchanged. 
Though 't were to face yon tigers ranged ! 

Nay, soothful bards have said. 
So perilous his state seemed now 
He wished him under arbor bough 

With Asia's willing maid. 
When, joyful sound ! at distance near 730 
A trumpet flourished loud and clear. 
And as it ceased a lofty lay 
Seemed thus to chide his lagging way. 

XXXIV 

' Son of Honor, theme of story. 
Think on the reward before ye ! 
Danger, darkness, toil despise; 
'T is Ambition bids thee rise. 

* He that would her heights ascend, 
Many a weary step must wend ; 

Hand and foot and knee he tries; 740 

Thus Ambition's minions rise. 

* Lag not now, though rough the way. 
Fortune's mood brooks no delay ; 



3IO 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 



Grasp the boon that 's spread before ye, 
Monarch's power and Conqueror's glory ! ' 

It ceased. Advancing on the sound, 
A steep ascent the wanderer found, 

And then a turret stair: 
Nor climbed he far its steepy round 

Till fresher blew the air, 750 

And next a welcome glimpse was given 
That cheered him with the light of hea- 
ven. 

At length his toil had won 
A lofty hall with trophies dressed, 
Where as to greet imperial guest 
Four maidens stood whose crimson vest 

Was bound with golden zone. 

XXXV 

Of Europe seemed the damsels all; 
The first a nymph of lively Gaul 
Whose easy step and laughing eye ^ 760 
Her borrowed air of awe belie ; 

The next a maid of Spain, 
Dark-eyed, dark-haired, sedate yet bold; 
White ivory skin and tress of gold 
Her shy and bashful comrade told 

For daughter of Almaine. 
These maidens bore a royal robe. 
With crown, with sceptre, and with globe, 

Emblems of empery; 
The fourth a space behind them stood, 770 
And leant upon a harp in mood 

Of minstrel ecstasy. 
Of merry England she, in dress 
Like ancient British Druidess, 
Her hair an azure fillet bound, 
Her graceful vesture swept the ground, 

And in her hand displayed 
A crown did that fourth maiden hold. 
But unadorned with gems and gold. 

Of glossy laurel made. 780 

XXXVI 

At once to brave De Vaux knelt down 

These foremost maidens three, 
And proffered sceptre, robe, and crown, 

Liegedom and seignorie 
O'er many a region wide and fair, 
Destined, they said, for Arthur's heir; 

But homage would he none : — 
* Rather,' he said, * De Vaux would ride, 
A warden of the Border-side 
In plate and mail than, robed in pride, 790 

A monarch's empire own; 
Rather, far v^ti^l'9 would he be 



A free-born knight of England free 

Than sit on despot's throne.' 
So passed he on, when that fourth maid, 

As starting from a trance, 
Upon the harp her finger laid; 
Her magic touch the chords obeyed, 

Their soul awaked at once ! 

SONG OF THE FOUKTH MAIDEN 

* Quake to your foundations deep, 800 
Stately towers, and bannered keep, 

Bid your vaulted echoes moan. 
As the dreaded step they own. 

* Fiends, that wait on Merlin's spell, 
Hear the foot-fall ! mark it well ! 
Spread your dusky wings abroad, 
Boune ye for your homeward road ! 

^ It is His, the first who e'er 
Dared the dismal Hall of Fear; 
His, who hath the snares defied 810 

Spread by Pleasure, Wealth, and Pride. 

* Quake to your foundations deep. 
Bastion huge, and turret steep ! 
Tremble, keep ! and totter, tower ! 
This is Gyneth's waking hour.' 

XXXVII 

Thus while she sung the venturous knight 
Has reached a bower where milder light 

Through crimson curtains fell; 
Such softened shade the hill receives. 
Her purple veil when twilight leaves 820 

Upon its western swell. 
That bower, the gazer to bewitch. 
Had wondrous store of rare and rich 

As e'er was seen with eye ; 
For there by magic skill, iwis. 
Form of each thing that living is 

Was limned in proper dye. m\ 

All seemed to sleep — the timid hare HI 
On form, the stag upon his lair. 
The eagle in her eyrie fair 83-^ 

Between the earth and sky. 
But what of pictured rich and rare 
Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, where, 
Deep slumbering in the fatal chair. 

He saw King Arthur's child ! 
Doubt and anger and dismay 
From her brow had passed away. 
Forgot was that fell tourney-day, 

For as she slept she smiled: 



CANTO THIRD 



311 



Ifc seemed that the repentant Seer 

Her sleep of many a hundred year 

With gentle dreams beguiled. 



840 



XXXVIII 

That form of maiden loveliness, 

'Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth, 
That ivory chair, that sylvan dress. 
The arms and ankles bare, express 

Of Lyulph's tale the truth. 
Still upon her garment's hem 
Vanoc's blood made purple gem, 
And the warder of command 850 

Cumbered still her sleeping hand; 
Still her dark locks dishevelled flow 
From net of pearl o'er breast of snow; 
And so fair the slumberer seems 
That De Vaux impeached his dreams, 
Vapid all and void of might. 
Hiding half her charms from sight. 
Motionless awhile he stands. 
Folds his arms and clasps his hands, 
Trembling in his fitful joy, 860 

Doubtful how he should destroy 

Long-enduring spell; 
Doubtful too, when slowly rise 
Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes, 

What these eyes shall tell. — 
* Saint George ! Saint Mary ! can it be 
That they will kindly look on me ! ' 

XXXIX 

Gently, lo ! the warrior kneels. 

Soft that lovely hand he steals. 

Soft to kiss and soft to clasp — 870 

But the warder leaves her grasp; 

Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder ! 
Gyneth startles from her sleep. 
Totters tower, and trembles keep. 

Burst the castle-walls asunder ! 
Fierce and frequent were the shocks, — 

Melt the magic halls away; — 
But beneath their mystic rocks. 
In the arms of bold De Vaux 

Safe the princess lay; 880 

Safe and free from magic power, 
Blushing like the rose's flower 

Opening to the day; 
And round the champion's brows were 

bound 
The crown that Druidess had wound 

Of the green laurel-bay. 
And this was what remained of all 
The wealth of each enchanted hall, 



The Garland and the Dame: 
But where should warrior seek the meed 890 
Due to high worth for daring deed 

Except from Love and Fame ! 



CONCLUSION 



My Lucy, when the maid is won 

The minstrel's task, thou know'st, is done; 

And to require of bard 
That to his dregs the tale should run 

Were ordinance too hard. 
Our lovers, briefly be it said. 
Wedded as lovers wont to wed, 

When tale or play is o'er; 
Lived long and blest, loved fond and true. 
And saw a numerous race renew 10 

The honors that they bore. 
Know too that when a pilgrim strays 
In morning mist or evening maze 

Along the mountain lone, 
That fairy fortress often mocks 
His gaze upon the castled rocks 

Of the Valley of Saint John; 
But never man since brave De Vaux 

The charmed portal won. 
'T is now a vain illusive show 20 

That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow. 

Or the fresh breeze hath blown. 

II 

But see, my love, where far below 
Our lingering wheels are moving slow, 

The whiles, up-gazing still, 
Our menials eye our steepy way, 
Marvelling perchance what whim can stay 
Our steps when eve is sinking gray 

On this gigantic hill. 
So think the vulgar — Life and time 3c 
Ring all their joys in one dull chime 

Of luxury and ease ; 
And O, beside these simple knaves. 
How many better born are slaves 

To such coarse joys as these. 
Dead to the nobler sense that glows 
When nature's grander scenes unclose ! 
But, Lucy, we will love them yet, 
The mountain's misty coronet, 

The greenwood and the wold; 4c 

And love the more that of their maze 
Adventure high of other days 

By ancient bards is tokl. 



312 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



Bringing perchance, like my poor tale, 
Some moral truth in fiction's veil: 
Nor love them less that o'er the hill 
The evening breeze as now comes chill; — 



My love shall wrap her warm. 
And, fearless of the slippery way 
While safe she trips the heathy brae, 

Shall hang on Arthur's arm. 



50 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 

A POEM IN SIX CANTOS 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



When The Lord of the Isles was published, 
Scott wrote of it to Lady Abercorn : ' I think 
it is my last poetical venture, at least upon a 
large scale. I swear not, because I do not 
make any positive resolution, but I think I 
have written enough, and it is unlikely I shall 
change my opinion.' With his healthy mind, 
Scott was not likely to misread the signs of 
nature, or the movement which his intellect- 
ual interest was likely to take. When he 
wrote these words he had published Waverley, 
and was projecting Guy Manner ing^ and the 
wider range which fiction could take to include 
the experiences of life which most appealed to 
him was too evident to permit him ever to re- 
turn to any considerable poetic effort. 

As in the case of his earlier work, he drove 
two horses abreast and was at work alternately 
on this poem and on the novel, whose early 
draft he stumbled on at this time. The poem, 
indeed, had been projected earlier, — before 
Rokeby was written, — but in the final heat 
\t was despatched with great rapidity, for, 
begun at Abbotsford in the autumn of 1814, 
it was ended at Edinburgh the 16th of Decem- 
ber, and published January 2, 1815. * It may 
be mentioned,' says the anonymous editor of 
the British Poets Edition, ' that those parts of 
the poem which were written at Abbotsford, 
were composed almost all in the presence of 
Sir Walter Scott's family, and many in that of 
casual visitors also : the original cottage which 
he then occupied not affording him any means 
of retirement. Neither conversation nor music 
seemed to disturb him.' When he was in the 
midst of his work, he wrote to Morritt : * My 
literary tormentor is a certain Lord of the Isles, 
famed for his tyranny of yore, and not unjustly. 
I am bothering some tale of him I have had 
long by me into a sort of romance. I think 



you will like it : it is Scottified up to the teeth, 
and somehow I feel myself like the liberated 
chiefs of the RoUiad, " who boast their na- 
tive philabeg restored." I believe the frolics 
one can cut in this loose garb are all set down 
by you Sassenachs to the real agility of the 
wearer, and not the brave, free, and independ- 
ent character of his clothing. It is, in a word, 
the real Highland fling, and no one is supposed 
able to dance it but a native.' The poem bore 
this advertisement when it was printed. 

ADVERTISEMENT 

The Scene of this Poem lies, at first, in the 
Castle of Artornish, on the coast of Argyleshire ; 
and, afterwards, in the Islands of Skye and 
Arran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally 
it is laid near Stirling. The story opens in the 
spring of the year 1307, when Bruce, who had 
been driven out of Scotland by the English, 
and the Barons who adhered to that foreign 
interest, returned from the Island of Rachrin 
on the coast of Ireland, again to assert his claims 
to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages 
and incidents introduced are of historical ce- 
lebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those 
of the venerable Lord Hailes, as well entitled 
to be called the restorer of Scottish history, as 
Bruce the restorer of Scottish Monarchy ; and 
of Archdeacon Barbour ; a correct edition of 
whose Metrical History of Robert Bruce will 
soon, I trust, appear, under the care of my 
learned friend, the Rev. Dr. Jamieson. 

Abbotsford, 10th December, 1814. 

The edition of 1833 had the following in- 
troduction, those passages being omitted here 
which relate to The Bridal of Triermain and 
Harold the DauntlesSy since they are printed in 
connection with those poems. 



INTRODUCTION 



I could hardly have chosen a subject more 
popular in Scotland than anything connected 
with the B race's history, unless I had attempted 



that of Wallace. But I am decidedly of opin- 
ion that a popular, or what is called a taking^ 
title, though well qualified to ensure the pub- 



CANTO FIRST 



313 



lishers against loss, and clear their shelves of 
the original impression, is rather apt to be 
hazardous than otherwise to the reputation of 
the author. He who attempts a subject of dis- 
tinguished popularity has not the privilege of 
awakening the enthusiasm of his audience ; on 
the contrary, it is already awakened, and glows, 
it may be, more ardently than that of the author 
himself. In this case the warmth of the author 
is inferior to that of the party whom he ad- 
dresses, who has therefore little chance of be- 
ing, in Bayes's phrase, ' elevated and surprised ' 
by what he has thought of with more enthusi- 
asm than the writer. The sense of this risk, 
joined to the consciousness of striving against 
wind and tide, made the task of composing the 
proposed Poem somewhat heavy and hopeless ; 
but, like the prize-fighter in As You Like It^ 
I was to wrestle for my reputation, and not 
neglect any advantage. In a most agreeable 
pleasure- voyage, which I have tried to com- 
memorate in the Introduction to the new 
edition of the Pirate^ I visited, in social and 
friendly company, the coasts and islands of 
Scotland, and made myself acquainted with 
the localities of which I meant to treat. But 
this voyage, which was in every other effect so 
delightful, was in its conclusion saddened by 
one of those strokes of fate which so often 
mingle themselves with our pleasures. The 
accomplished and excellent person who had 
recommended to me the subject for The Lay of 
the Last Minstrel, [Harriet, Duchess of Buc- 



cleuch] and to whom I proposed to inscribe 
what I already suspected might be the close 
of my poetical labors, was unexpectedly re- 
moved from the world, which she seemed only 
to have visited for purposes of kindness and 
benevolence. It is needless to say how the 
author's feelings, or the composition of his 
trifling work, were affected by a circumstance 
which occasioned so many tears and so much 
sorrow. True it is, that The Lord of the Isles 
was concluded, unwillingly and in haste, under 
the painful feeling of one who has a task which 
must be finished, rather than with the ardor 
of one who endeavors to perform that task 
well. Although the Poem cannot be said to 
have made a favorable impression on the pub- 
lic, the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled 
the Author to retreat from the field with the 
honors of war. 

In the mean time, what was necessarily to 
be considered as a failure was much reconciled 
to my feelings by the success attending my 
attempt in another species of composition. 
Waverley had, under strict incognito, taken its 
flight from the press, just before I set out upon 
the voyage already mentioned; it had now 
made its way to popularity, and the success 
of that work and the volumes which followed 
was sufficient to have satisfied a greater ap- 
petite for applause than I have at any time 



Abbotsford, April, 1830. 



CANTO FIRST 

Autumn departs — - but still liis mantle's fold 
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, 
Beneath a shroud of russet drooped with gold 
Tweed and his tributaries mingle still; 
Hoarser the wind and deeper sounds the rill, 
Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell, 
The deep-toned cushat and the redbreast shrill; 
And yet some tints of summer splendor tell 
When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell. 

Autumn departs — from Gala's fields no more 
Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer; 
Blent with the stream and gale that wafts it o'er, 
No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear. 
The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear, 
And harvest-home hath hushed the clanging wain, 
On the waste hill no forms of life appear. 
Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal strain, 
Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scattered grain. 

Deem'st thou these saddened scenes have pleasure still, 
Lov'st thou through Autumn's fading realms to stray. 
To see the heath-flower withered on the hill. 



3M 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



To listen to the woods' expiring lay, 
To note the red leaf shivering on the spray, 
To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain, 
On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way, 
And moralize on mortal joy and pain ? — 
O, if such scenes thou lov'st, scorn not the minstrel strain ! 

No ! do not scorn, although its hoarser note 
Scarce with the cushat's homely song can vie, 
Though faint its beauties as the tints remote 
That gleam through mist in autumn's evening sky, 
And few as leaves that tremble, sear and dry, 
When wild November hath his bugle wound; 
Nor mock my toil — a lonely gleaner I 
Through fields time- wasted, on sad inquest bound 
Where happier bards of yore have richer harvest found. 



3^ 



So shalt thou list, and haply not unmoved, 
To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day; 
In distant lands, by the rough West reproved, 
Still live some relics of the ancient lay. 
For, when on Coolin's hills the lights decay, 
With such the Seer of Skye the eve beguiles; 
'T is known amid the pathless wastes of Reay, 
In Harries known and in lona's piles. 
Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of the Isles. 



40 



* Wake, Maid of Lorn ! ' the minstrels 

sung. — 
Thy rugged halls, Artornish, rung. 
And the dark seas thy towers that lave 
Heaved on the beach a softer wave. 
As mid the tuneful choir to keep 50 

The diapason of the deep. 
Lulled were the winds on Inninmore 
And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore. 
As if wild woods and waves had pleasure 
In listing to the lovely measure. 
And ne'er to symphony more sweet 
Gave mountain echoes answer meet 
Since, met from mainland and from isle, 
Ross, Arran, Islay, and Argyle, 
Each minstrel's tributary lay 60 

Paid homage to the festal day. 
Dull and dishonored were the bard. 
Worthless of guerdon and regard. 
Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame. 
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim, 
Who on that morn's resistless call 
Was silent in Artornish hall. 



* Wake, Maid of Lorn ! ' — 't was thus 

they sung, 
And yet more proud the descant rung, 69 



* Wake, Maid of Lorn ! high right is ours 
To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers; 
Earth, ocean, air, have nought so shy 

But owns the power of minstrelsy. 

In Lettermore the timid deer 

Will pause the harp's wild chime to hear; 

Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark 

Will long pursue the minstrel's bark; 

To list his notes the eagle proud 

Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud; 

Then let not maiden's ear disdain 80 

The summons of the minstrel train. 

But while our harps wild music make, 

Edith of Lorn, awake, awake ! 

Ill 

* O, wake while Dawn with dewy shine 
Wakes nature's charms to vie with thine ! 
She bids the mottled thrush rejoice 

To mate thy melody of voice; 

The dew that on the violet lies 

Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes; 

But, Edith, wake, and all we see 9a 

Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee ! ' — 

* She comes not yet,' gray Ferrand cried; 

* Brethren, let softer spell be tried, 
Those notes prolonged, that soothing 

theme. 
Which best may mix with Beauty's dream, 



CANTO FIRST 



315 



And whisper with their silvery tone 
The hope she loves yet fears to own.' 
He spoke, and on the harp-strings died 
The strains of flattery and of pride ; 
More soft, more low, more tender fell 100 
The lay of love he bade them tell. 

IV 

* Wake, Maid of Lorn ! the moments fly 

Which yet that maiden-name allow; 
Wake, Maiden, wake ! the hour is nigh 

When love shall claim a plighted vow. 
By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest, 

By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, 
We bid thee break the bonds of rest. 

And wake thee at the call of Love ! 

* Wake, Edith, wake ! in yonder bay no 

Lies many a galley gayly manned, 
We hear the merry pibroch's play. 

We see the streamers' silken band. 
What chieftain's praise these pibrochs swell, 

What crest is on these banners wove. 
The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell — 

The riddle must be read by Love ! ' 



Retired her maiden train among, 

Edith of Lorn received the song, 1 19 

But tamed the minstrel's pride had been 

That had her cold demeanor seen; 

For not upon her cheek awoke 

The glow of pride when Flattery spoke. 

Nor could their tenderest numbers bring 

One sigh responsive to the string. 

As vainly had her maidens vied 

In skill to deck the princely bride. 

Her locks in dark-brown length arrayed, 

Cathleen of Ulne, 't was thine to braid; 

Young Eva with meet reverence drew 130 

On the light foot the silken shoe. 

While on the ankle's slender round 

Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound 

That, bleached Lochryan's depths within, 

Seemed dusky still on Edith's skin. 

But Einion, of experience old, 

Had weightiest task — the mantle's fold 

In many an artful plait she tied 

To show the form it seemed to hide. 

Till on the floor descending rolled i4(^ 

Its waves of crimson blent with gold. 

VI 

O, lives there now so cold a maid. 
Who thus in beauty's pomp arrayed, 



In beauty's proudest pitch of power, 
And conquest won — the bridal hour — 
With every charm that wins the heart, 
By Nature given, enhanced by Art, 
Could yet the fair reflection view 
In the bright mirror pictured true, 
And not one dimple on her cheek 150 

A telltale consciousness bespeak ? — 
Lives still such maid ? — Fair damsels, say. 
For further vouches not my lay 
Save that such lived in Britain's isle 
When Lorn's bright Edith scorned to 
smile. 

VII 

But Morag, to whose fostering care 
Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair, 
Morag, who saw a mother's aid 
By all a daughter's love repaid — 
Strict was that bond, most kind of all, 160 
Inviolate in Highland hall — 
Gray Morag sate a space apart. 
In Edith's eyes to read her heart. 
In vain the attendant's fond appeal 
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal; 
She marked her child receive their care, 
Cold as the image sculptured fair — 
Form of some sainted patroness — 
Which cloistered maids combine to dress; 
She marked — and knew her nursling's 
heart 170 

In the vain pomp took little part. 
Wistful awhile she gazed — then pressed 
The maiden to her anxious breast 
In finished loveliness — and led 
To where a turret's airy head. 
Slender and steep and battled round, 
O'erlooked, dark Mull, thy mighty Sound, 
Where thwarting tides with mingled roar 
Part thy swarth hills from Morven's shore. 

VIII 

* Daughter,' she said, * those seas behold, \So 
Round twice a hundred islands rolled. 
From Hirt that hears their northern roar 
To the green Hay's fertile shore; 
Or mainland turn where many a tower 
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power, 
Each on its own dark cape reclined 
And listening to its own wild wind, 
From where Mingarry sternly placed 
O'erawes the woodland and the waste, 1S9 
To where Dunstalfnage hears the raging 
Of Connal with its rocks engaging. 
Think'st thou amid this ample round 



3i6 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



A single brow but thine has frowned, 
To sadden this auspicious morn 
That bids the daughter of high Lorn 
Impledge her spousal faith to wed 
The heir of mighty Somerled ? 
Ronald, from many a hero sprung. 
The fair, the valiant, and the young. 
Lord of the Isles, whose lofty name 200 
A thousand bards have given to fame, 
The mate of monarchs, and allied 
On equal terms with England's pride. — 
From chieftain's tower to bondsman's 

cot. 
Who hears the tale, and triumphs not ? 
The damsel dons her best attire, 
The shepherd lights his beltane fire, 
Joy i joy ! each warder's horn hath sung, 
Joy ' joy ! each matin bell hath rung; 
The holy priest says grateful mass, 210 

Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass, 
No mountain den holds outcast boor 
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor, 
But he hath flung his task aside, 
And claimed this morn for holy-tide; 
Yet, empress of this joyful day, 
Edith is sad while all are gay.' 

IX 

Proud Edith's soul came to her eye, 

Resentmeiit checked the struggling sigh. 

Her hurrying hand indignant dried 220 

The burning tears of injured pride — 

* Morag, forbear ! or lend thy praise 

To swell yon hireling harpers' lays ; 

Make to yon maids thy boast of power, 

That they may waste a wondering hour 

Telling of banners proudly borne. 

Of pealing bell and bugle horn, 

Or, theme more dear, of robes of price, 

Crownlets and gauds of rare device. 

But thou, experienced as thou art, 230 

Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart 

That, bound in strong affection's chain, 

Looks for return and looks in vain ? 

No ! sum thine Edith's wretched lot 

In these brief words — He loves her not ! 



* Debate it not — too long I strove 
To call his cold observance love. 
All blinded by the league that styled 
Edith of Lorn — while yet a child 
She tripped the heath by Morag's 
side — 240 

The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride. 



Ere yet I saw him, while afar 

His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war, 

Trained to believe our fates the same, 

My bosom throbbed when Ronald's name 

Came gracing Fame's heroic tale. 

Like perfume on the summer gale. 

What pilgrim sought our halls nor told 

Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold; 

Who touched the harp to heroes' praise 250 

But his achievements swelled the lays ? 

Even Morag — not a tale of fame 

Was hers but closed with Ronald's name. 

He came ! and all that had been told 

Of his high worth seemed poor and cold, 

Tame, lifeless, void of energy, 

Unjust to Ronald and to me ! 

XI 

* Since then, what thought had Edith's 

heart 
And gave not plighted love its part ! — 
And what requital ? cold delay — 260 

Excuse that shunned the spousal day. — 
It dawns and Ronald is not here ! — 
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer, 
Or loiters he in secret dell 
To bid some lighter love farewell. 
And swear that though he may not scorn 
A daughter of the House of Lorn, 
Yet, when these formal rites are o'er, 
Again they meet to part no more ? ' 

XII 

* Hush, daughter, hush ! thy doubts re- 

move, 270 

More nobly think of Ronald's love. 
Look, where beneath the castle gray 
His fleet unmoor from Aros bay ! 
See'st not each galley's topmast bend 
As on the yards the sails ascend ? 
Hiding the dark-blue land they rise, 
Like the white clouds on April skies; 
The shouting vassals man the oars. 
Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores, 
Onward their merry course they keep 280 
Through whistling breeze and foaming 

deep. 
And mark the headmost, seaward cast, 
Stoop to the freshening gale her mast, 
As if she veiled its bannered pride 
To greet afar her prince's bride ! 
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed 
His galley mates the flying steed. 
He chides her sloth ! ' — Fair Edith sighed, 
Blushed, sadly smiled, and thus replied; 



CANTO FIRST 



317 



XIII 

* Sweet thought, but vain ! — No, Morag ! 

mark, 290 

Type of his course, yon lonely bark. 
That oft hath shifted helm and sail 
To win its way against the gale. 
Since peep of morn my vacant eyes 
Have viewed by fits the course she tries; 
Now, though the darkening scud comes 

on, 
And dawn's fair promises be gone, 
And though the weary crew may see 
Our sheltering haven on their lee. 
Still closer to the rising wind 300 

They strive her shivering sail to bind. 
Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge 
At every tack her course they urge. 
As if they feared Artornish more 
Than adverse winds and breakers' roar.' 

XIV 

Sooth spoke the maid. Amid the tide 

The skiff she marked lay tossing sore. 
And shifted oft her stooping side. 

In weary tack from shore to shore. 
Yet on her destined course no more 310 

She gained of forward way 
Than what a minstrel may compare 
To the poor meed which peasants share 

Who toil the livelong day; 
And such the risk her pilot braves 

That oft, before she wore, 
Her boltsprit kissed the broken waves 
Where in white foam the ocean raves 

Upon the shelving shore. 
Yet, to their destined purpose true, 320 
Undaunted toiled her hardy crew, 

Nor looked where shelter lay. 
Nor for Artornish Castle drew. 

Nor steered for Aros bay. 

XV 

Thus while they strove with wind and seas, 
Borne onward by the willing breeze, 

Lord Ronald's fleet swept by, 
Streamered with silk and tricked with 

gold. 
Manned with the noble and the bold 

Of Island chivalry. 330 

Around their prows the ocean roars, 
And chafes beneath their thousand oars. 

Yet bears them on their way : 
So chafes the war-horse in his might 
That fieldward bears some valiant kuiglit, 
Champs till both bit and boss are white, 



But foaming must obey. 
On each gay deck they might behold 
Lances of steel and crests of gold, 
And hauberks with their burnished fold 340 

That shimmered fair and free ; 
And each proud galley as she passed 
To the wild cadence of the blast 

Gave wilder minstrelsy. 
Full many a shrill triumphant note 
Saline and Scallastle bade float 

Their misty shores around; 
And Morven's echoes answered well, 
And Duart heard the distant swell 

Come down the darksome Sound. 



350 



XVI 



So bore they on with mirth and pride, 
And if that laboring bark they spied, 

'T was with such idle eye 
As nobles cast on lowly boor 
When, toiling in his task obscure. 

They pass him careless by. 
Let them sweep on with heedless eyes ! 
But had they known what mighty prize 

In that frail vessel lay. 
The famished wolf that prowls the wold 360 
Had scathless passed the unguarded fold, 
Ere, drifting by these galleys bold. 

Unchallenged were her way ! 
And thou. Lord Ronald, sweep thon on 
With mirth and pride and minstrel tone ! 
But hadst thou known who sailed so 

nigh. 
Far other glance were in thine eye I 
Far other flush were on thy brow, 
That, shaded by the bonnet, now 
Assumes but ill the blithesome cheer 370 
Of bridegroom when the bride is near ! 

XVII 

Yes, sweep they on ! — We will not leave, 
For them that triumph, those who grieve. 

With that armada gay 
Be laughter loud and jocund shout. 
And bards to cheer the wassail rout 

With tale, romance, and lay; 
And of wild mirth each clamorous art. 
Which, if it cannot cheer the heart, 
May stupefy and stun its smart 38a 

For one loud busy day. 
Yes, sweep they on ! — But with that skiff 

Abides the minstrel tale, 
Where there was dread of surge and cliff, 
Labor that strained each sinew stiff', 

And one sad maiden's wail. 



3i8 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



XVIII 

All day with fruitless strife they toiled, 
With eve the ebbing currents boiled 

More fierce from strait and lake; 
And midway through the channel met 390 
Conflicting tides that foam and fret, 
And high their mingled billows jet. 
As spears that in the battle set 

Spring upward as they break. 
Then too the lights of eve were past, 
And louder sung the western blast 

On rocks of Inninmore; 
Rent was the sail, and strained the mast. 
And many a leak was gaping fast. 
And the pale steersman stood aghast 400 

And gave the conflict o'er. 

XIX 

'T was then that One whose lofty look 
Nor labor dulled nor terror shook 
Thus to the leader spoke : — 

* Brother, how hop'st thou to abide 
The fury of this wildered tide. 

Or how avoid the rock's rude side 

Until the day has broke ? 
Didst thou not mark the vessel reel 409 
With quivering planks and groaning keel 

At the last billow's shock ? 
Yet how of better counsel tell. 
Though here thou see'st poor Isabel 

Half dead with want and fear; 
For look on sea, or look on land, 
Or yon dark sky, on every hand 

Despair and death are near. 
For her alone I grieve — on me 
Danger sits light by land and sea, 

I follow where thou wilt; 420 

Either to bide the tempest's lour, 
Or wend to yon unfriendly tower. 
Or rush amid their naval power, 
With war-cry wake their wassail-hour, 

And die with hand on hilt.' 

XX 

That elder leader's calm reply 
In steady voice was given, 

* In man's most dark extremity 

Oft succor dawns from heaven. 
Edward, trim thou the shattered sail, 430 
The helm be mine, and down the gale 

Let our free course be driven; 
So shall we 'scape the western bay. 
The hostile fleet, the unequal fray. 
Bo safely hold our vessel's way 



440 



Beneath the castle wall; 
For if a hope of safety rest, 
'T is on the sacred name of guest. 
Who seeks for shelter storm-distressed 

Within a chieftain's hall. 
If not — it best beseems our worth. 
Our name, our right, our lofty birth, 

By noble hands to fall.' 

XXI 
The helm, to his strong arm consigned. 
Gave the reefed sail to meet the wind. 

And on her altered way 
Fierce bounding forward sprung the ship. 
Like greyhound starting from the slip 

To seize his flying prey. 
Awaked before the rushing prow 450 

The mimic fires of ocean glow. 

Those lightnings of the wave; 
Wild sparkles crest the broken tides, 
And flashing round the vessel's sides 

With elfish lustre lave. 
While far behind their livid light 
To the dark billows of the night 

A gloomy splendor gave, 
It seems as if old Ocean shakes 
From his dark brow the lucid flakes 46 

In envious pageantry. 
To match the meteor-light that streaks 

Grim Hecla's midnight sky. 

XXII 

Nor lacked they steadier light to keep 
Their course upon the darkened deep; — 
Artornish, on her frowning steep 

'Twixt cloud and ocean hung. 
Glanced with a thousand lights of glee, | 
And landward far, and far to sea 1 

Her festal radiance flung. 47c 

By that blithe beacon-light they steered, 

Whose lustre mingled well 
With the pale beam that now appeared, 
As the cold moon her head upreared 

Above the eastern fell. 

XXIII 
Thus guided, on their course they bore 
Until they neared the mainland shore. 
When frequent on the hollow blast 
Wild shouts of merriment were cast. 
And wind and wave and sea-birds' cry 48a 
With wassail sounds in concert vie, 
Like funeral shrieks with revelry. 

Or like the battle-shout 
By peasants heard from cliffs on high 



CANTO FIRST 



319 



When Triumph, Kage, and Agony 

Madden the fight and rout. 
Now nearer yet through mist and storm 
Dimly arose the castle's form 

And deepened shadow made, 
Far lengthened on the main below, 490 

Where dancing in reflected glow 

A hundred torches played, 
Spangling the wave with lights as vain 
As pleasures in this vale of pain, 

That dazzle as they fade. 

XXIV 

Beneath the castle's sheltering lee 
They staid their course in quiet sea. 
Hewn in the rock, a passage there 
Sought the dark fortress by a stair, 

So strait, so high, so steep, 500 

With peasant's staff one valiant hand 
Might well the dizzy pass have manned 
'Gainst hundreds armed with spear and 
brand 

And plunged them in the deep. 
His bugle then the helmsman wound: 
Loud answered every echo round 

From turret, rock, and bay ; 
The postern's hinges crash and groan, 
And soon the warder's cresset shone 
On those rude steps of slippery stone, 510 

To light the upward way. 

* Thrice welcome, holy Sire ! ' he said ; 

* Full long the spousal train have staid, 

And, vexed at thy delay. 
Feared lest amidst these wildering seas 
The darksome night and freshening breeze 

Had driven thy bark astray.' — 

XXV 

* Warder,' the younger stranger said, 

* Thine erring guess some mirth had made 
In mirthful hour; but nights like these, 520 
When the rough winds wake western seas. 
Brook not of glee. We crave some aid 
And needful shelter for this maid 

Until the break of day; 
For to ourselves the deck's rude plank 
Is easy as the mossy bank 

That 's breathed upon by May. 
And for our storm-tossed skiff we seek 
Short shelter in this leeward creek, 529 

Prompt when the dawn the east shall streak 

Again to bear away.' 
Answered the warder, * In what name 
Assert ye hospitable claim ? 

Whence come or whither bound ? 



Hath Erin seen your parting sails, 
Or come ye on Norweyan gales ? 
And seek ye England's fertile vales, 
Or Scotland's mountain ground ? ' 

XXVI 

* Warriors — for other title none 

For some brief space we list to own, 540 

Bound by a vow — warriors are we ; 

In strife by land and storm by sea 

We have been known to fame; 
And these brief words have import dear, 
When sounded in a noble ear. 
To harbor safe and friendly cheer 

That gives us rightful claim. 
Grant us the trivial boon we seek, 
And we in other realms will speak 

Fair of your courtesy; 550 

Deny — and be your niggard hold 
Scorned by the noble and the bold. 
Shunned by the pilgrim on the wold 

And wanderer on the lea ! ' 

XXVII 

*Bold stranger, no — 'gainst claim like 

thine 
No bolt revolves by hand of mine. 
Though urged in tone that more expressed 
A monarch than a suppliant guest. 
Be what ye will, Artornish Hall 
On this glad eve is free to all. 560 

Though ye had drawn a hostile sword 
'Gainst our ally, great England's Lord, 
Or mail upon your shoulders borne 
To battle with the Lord of Lorn, 
Or outlawed dwelt by greenwood tree 
With the fierce Knight of Ellerslie, 
Or aided even the murderous strife 
When Comyn fell beneath the knife 
Of that fell homicide the Bruce, 
This night had been a term of truce. — 570 
Ho, vassals ! give these guests your care, 
And show the narrow postern stair.' 

XXVIII 

To land these two bold brethren leapt — 
The weary crew their vessel kept — 
And, lighted by the torches' flare 
That seaward flung their smoky glare. 
The younger knight that maiden bare 

Half lifeless up the rock; 
On his strong shoulder leaned her head. 
And down her long dark tresses shed, 580 
As the wild vine in tendrils spread 

Droops from the mountain oak. 



I 



320 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



Him followed close that elder lord, 
And in his hand a sheathed sword 

Such as few arms could wield; 
But when he bouned him to such task 
Well could it cleave the strongest casque 

And rend the surest shield. 

XXIX 

The raised portcullis' arch they pass, 

The wicket with its bars of brass, 590 

The entrance long and low, 
Flanked at each turn bv loop-holes strait, 
Where bowmen might in ambush wait — 
If force or fraud should burst the gate — 

To gall an entering foe. 
But every jealous post of ward 
Was now defenceless and unbarred. 

And all the passage free 
To one low-browed and vaulted room 
Where squire and yeoman, page and 
groom, 600 

Plied their loud revelry. 

XXX 

And * Rest ye here,' the warder bade, 

* Till to our lord your suit is said. — 
And, comrades, gaze not on the maid 
And on these men who ask our aid. 

As if ye ne'er had seen 
A damsel tired of midnight bark 
Or wanderers of a moulding stark 

And bearing martial mien.' 

But not for Eachin's reproof 610 

Would page or vassal stand aloof. 

But crowded on to stare. 
As men of courtesy untaught, 
Till Fiery Edward roughly caught 

From one the foremost there 
His chequered plaid, and in its shroud, 
To hide her from the vulgar crowd, 

Involved his sister fair. 
His brother, as the clansman bent 
His sullen brow in discontent, 620 

Made brief and stern excuse: 

* Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall 
That decks thy lord in bridal hall, 

'T were honored by her use.' 

XXXI 

Proud was his tone but calm; his eye 

Had that compelling dignity. 

His mien that bearing haught and high, 

Which common spirits fear; 
Needed nor word nor signal more. 
Nod, wink, and laughter, all were o'er; 630 



Upon each other back they bore 

And gazed like startled deer. 
But now appeared the seneschal, 
Commissioned by his lord to call 
The strangers to the baron's hall. 

Where feasted fair and free 
That Island Prince in nuptial tide 
With Edith there his lovely bride. 
And her bold brother by her side. 
And many a chief, the flower and pride 64a 

Of Western land and sea. 

Here pause we, gentles, for a space; 
And, if our tale hath won your grace, 
Grant us brief patience and again 
We will renew the minstrel strain. 



CANTO SECOND 



Fill the bright goblet, spread the festive 

board ! 
Summon the gay, the noble, and the 

fair ! 
Through the loud hall in joyous concert 

poured, 
Let mirth and music sound the dirge of 

Care! 
But ask thou not if Happiness be there. 
If the loud laugh disguise convulsive 

throe. 
Or if the brow the heart's true livery 

wear; 
Lift not the festal mask ! — enough to 

know. 
No scene of mortal life but teems with 

mortal woe. 

n 

With beakers' clang, with harpers' lay, 10 
With all that olden time deemed gay, 
The Island Chieftain feasted high; 
But there was in his troubled eye 
A gloomy fire, and on his brow 
Now sudden flushed and faded now 
Emotions such as draw their birth 
From deeper source than festal mirth. 
By fits he paused, and harper's strain 
Aud jester's tale went round in vain, 
Or fell but on his idle ear 20 

Like distant sounds which dreamers hear. 
Then would he rouse him, and employ 
Each art to aid the clamorous joy. 
And call for pledge and lay, 



CANTO SECOND 



321 



And, for brief space, of all the crowd, 
As he was loudest of the loud, 
wm Seem gayest of the gay. 

» III 

Yet nought amiss the bridal throng 
Marked in brief mirth or musing long; 
The vacant brow, the unlistening ear, 30 
They gave to thoughts of raptures near, 
And his fierce starts of sudden glee 
Seemed bursts of bridegroom's ecstasy. 
Nor thus alone misjudged the crowd, 
Since lofty Lorn, suspicious, proud. 
And jealous of his honored line. 
And that keen knight, De Argentine — 
From England sent on errand high 
The western league more firm to tie — 
Both deemed in Ronald's mood to find 40 
A lover's transport-troubled mind. 
But one sad heart, one tearful eye, 
Pierced deeper through the mystery, 
And watched with agony and fear 
Her wayward bridegroom's varied cheer. 

IV 

She watched — yet feared to meet his 

glance. 
And he shunned hers; — till when by 

chance 
They met, the point of foeman's lance 

Had given a milder pang ! 
Beneath the intolerable smart 50 

He writhed; — then sternly manned his 

heart 
To play his hard but destined part. 
And from the table sprang. 

* Fill me the mighty cup,' he said, 

* Erst owned by royal Somerled ! 
Fill it, till on the studded brim 

In burning gold the bubbles swim. 
And every gem of varied shine 
Glow doubly bright in rosy wine I 

To you, brave lord, and brother mine, 60 

Of Lorn, this pledge I drink — 
The Union of Our House with thine, 
By this fair bridal-link ! ' 



* Let it pass round ! ' quoth he of Lorn, 

* And in good time — that winded horn 

Must of tlie abbot tell; 
The laggard monk is come at last.* 
Lord Ronald heard the bugle-blast. 
And on the floor at random cast 

The untasted goblet fell. 



But when the warder in his ear 
Tells other news, his blither cheer 

• Returns like sun of May 
When through a thunder-cloud it beams I — 
Lord of two hundred isles, he seems 

As glad of brief delay 
As some poor criminal might feel 
When from the gibbet or the wheel 

Respited for a day. 

VI 

* Brother of Lorn,' with hurried voice 80 
He said, *and you, fair lords, rejoice ! 

Here, to augment our glee, 
Come wandering knights from travel far. 
Well proved, they say, in strife of war 

And tempest on the sea. — 
Ho ! give them at your board such place 
As best their presences may grace, 

And bid them welcome free ! ' 
With solemn step and silver wand. 
The seneschal the presence scanned 90 

Of these strange guests, and well he knew 
How to assign their rank its due; 

For though the costly furs 
That erst had decked their caps were torn, 
And their gay robes were over-worn, 

And soiled their gilded spurs. 
Yet such a high commanding grace 
Was in their mien and in their face 
As suited best the princely dais 

And royal canopy; ,00 

And there he marshalled them their place, 

First of that company. 

VII 

Then lords and ladies spake aside. 
And angry looks the error chide 
That gave to guests unnamed, unknown, 
A place so near their prince's throne; 
But Owen Erraught said, 

* For forty years a seneschal. 

To marshal guests in bower and hall 

Has been my honored trade. n* 

Worship and birth to me are known. 
By look, by bearing, and by tone. 
Not by furred robe or broidered zone; 

And 'gainst an oaken bough 
I '11 gage my silver wand of state 
That these three strangers oft have sate 
In higher place than now.' 

VIII 

* I too,' the aged Ferrand said, 

* Am qualified by minstrel trade 



322 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



Of rank and place to tell; — 120 

Marked ye the younger stranger's eye, 
My mates, how quick, how keen, how 
high, 

How fierce its flashes fell. 
Glancing among the noble rout 
As if to seek the noblest out, 
Because the owner might not brook 
On any save his peers to look ? 

And yet it moves me more, 
Tliat steady, calm, majestic brow, 
With which the elder chief even now 130 

Scanned the gay presence o'er. 
Like being of superior kind. 
In whose high-toned impartial mind 
Degrees of mortal rank and state 
Seem objects of indifferent weight. 

The lady too — though closely tied 
The mantle veil both face and eye, 

Her motions' grace it could not hide. 
Nor cloud her form's fair symme- 
try/ 

IX 

Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn 140 

Loured on the haughty front of Lorn. 
From underneath his brows of pride 
The stranger guests he sternly eyed, 
And whispered closely what the ear 
Of Argentine alone might hear; 

Then questioned, high and brief. 
If in their voyage aught they knew 
Of the rebellious Scottish crew 
Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew 

With Carrick's outlawed Chief ? 150 

And if, their winter's exile o'er. 
They harbored still by Ulster's shore, 
Or launched their galleys on the main 
To vex their native land again ? 



That younger stranger, fierce and high, 
At once confronts the chieftain's eye 

With look of equal scorn: 
' Of rebels have we nought to show; 
But if of royal Bruce thou 'dst know, 

I warn thee he has sworn, 160 

Ere thrice three days shall come and go. 
His banner Scottish winds shall blow. 
Despite each mean or mighty foe, 
From England's every bill and bow 

To AUaster of Lorn.' 
Kindled the mountain chieftain's ire, 
But Ronald quenched the rising fire: 
• Brother, it better suits the time 



To chase the night with Ferrand's rhyme 
Than wake midst mirth and wine the 
jars 170 

That flow from these unhappy wars.' 
'Content,' said Lorn; and spoke apart 
With Ferrand, master of his art. 

Then whispered Argentine, 
' The lay I named will carry smart 
To these bold strangers' haughty heart, 

If right this guess of mine.' 
He ceased, and it was silence all 
Until the minstrel waked the hall. 

XI 

THE BROOCH OF LORN 

' Whence the brooch of burning gold 18c 
That clasps the chieftain's mantle-fold. 
On the varied tartans beaming. 
Wrought and chased with rare device, 
Studded fair with gems of price. 
As, through night's pale rainbow gleam- 
ing, 
Fainter now, now seen afar. 
Fitful shines the northern star ? 

' Gem ! ne'er wrought on Highland moun- 
tain. 
Did the fairy of the fountain 
Or the mermaid of the wave 19c 

Frame thee in some coral cave ? 
Did, in Iceland's darksome mine, 
Dwarf's swart hands thy metal twine ? 
Or, mortal-moulded, comest thou here 
From England's love or France's fear ? 

XII 
SONG CONTINUED 

^ No ! — thy splendors nothing tell 

Foreign art or faery spell. 

Moulded thou for monarch's use, 

By the overweening Bruce, 

When the royal robe he tied 200 

O'er a heart of wrath and pride; 

Thence in triumph wert thou torn 

By the victor hand of Lorn ! 

^ When the gem was won and lost, 
Widely was the war-cry tossed ! 
Rung aloud Bendourish fell. 
Answered Douchart's sounding dell, 
Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum, 
When the homicide o'ercome 
Hardly 'scaped with scathe and scorn, 210 
Left the pledge with conquering Lorn f 



CANTO SECOND 



32: 



XllI 



SONG CONCLUDED 



* Vain was then the Douglas brand, 
Vain the Campbell's vaunted hand, 
Vain Kirkpatrick's bloody dirk, 
Making sure of murder's work; 
Barendown fled fast away, 

Fled the fiery De la Haye, 

When this brooch triumphant borne 

Beamed upon the breast of Lorn. 

* Farthest fled its former lord, 220 
Left his men to brand and cord, 

Bloody brand of Highland steel, 
English gibbet, axe, and wheel. 
Let him fly from coast to coast. 
Dogged by Comyn's vengeful ghost, 
While his spoils in triumph worn 
Long shall grace victorious Lorn ! ' 

XIV 

As glares the tiger on his foes. 

Hemmed in by hunters, spears, and bows, 

And, ere he bounds upon the ring, 230 

Selects the object of his spring, — 

Now on the bard, now on his lord. 

So Edward glared and grasped his sword — 

But stern his brother spoke, ' Be still. 

What ! art thou yet so wild of will. 

After high deeds and sufferings long. 

To chafe thee for a menial's song ? — 

Well hast thou framed, old man, thy 

strains. 
To praise the hand that pays thy pains ! 
Yet something might thy song have told 240 
Of Lorn's three vassals, true and bold, 
Who rent their lord from Bruce's hold 
As underneath his knee he lay, 
And died to save him in the fray. 
I We heard the Bruce's cloak and clasp 
Was clenched within their dying grasp, 
What time a hundred foernen more 
Rushed in and back the victor bore, 
Long after Lorn had left the strife. 
Full glad to 'scape with limb and life. — -..,0 
Enough of this — and, minstrel, hold 
As minstrel-hire this chain of gold. 
For future lays a fair excuse 
To speak more nobly of the Bruce.' — 

XV 

* Now, by Columba's shrine, I swear. 
And every saint that 's buried there, 
'T is he himself ! ' Lorn sternly cries, 



* And for my kinsman's death he dies.' 
As loudly Ronald calls, * Forbear ! 

Not in my sight while brand I wear, 26c 

O'ermatched by odds, shall warrior fall, 

Or blood of stranger stain my hall ! 

This ancient fortress of my race 

Shall be misfortune's resting-place. 

Shelter and shield of the distressed. 

No slaughter-house for shipwrecked guest.' 

* Talk not to me,' fierce Lorn replied, 

* Of odds or match ! — when Comyn died. 
Three daggers clashed within his side ! 
Talk not to me of sheltering hall, 27* 
The Church of God saw Comyn fall ! 

On God's own altar streamed his blood. 
While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood 
The ruthless murderer — e'en as now — 
With armed hand and scornful brow ! — 
Up, all who love me ! blow on blow ! 
And lay the outlawed felons low ! ' 

XVI 

Then up sprang many a mainland lord. 
Obedient to their chieftain's word. 
Barcaldine's arm is high in air, 280 

And Kinloch-Alline's blade is bare, 
Black Murthok's dirk has left its sheath, 
And clenched is Dermid's hand of death. 
Their muttered threats of vengeance swell 
Into a wild and warlike yell; 
Onward they press with weapons high. 
The affrighted females shriek and fly. 
And, Scotland, then thy brightest ray 
Had darkened ere its noon of day. 
But every chief of birth and fame 290 

That from the Isles of Ocean came 
At Ronald's side that hour withstood 
Fierce Lorn's relentless thirst for blood. 

XVII 
Brave Torquil from Dunvegan high, 
Lord of the misty hills of Skye, 
Mac-Niel, wild Bara's ancient thane, 
Duart of bold Clan-Gillian's strain, 
Fergus of Canna's castled bay, 
Mac-Duffith, Lord of Colonsay, 399 

Soon as they saw the broadswords glance, 
With ready weapons rose at once, 
More prompt that many an ancient feud, 
Full oft suppressed, full oft renewed. 
Glowed 'twixt the chieftains of Argyle, 
And many a lord of ocean's isle. 
Wild was the scene — each sword was 

bare. 
Back streamed each chieftain's shaggy hair, 



324 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



In gloomy opposition set, 
Eyes, hands, and brandished weapons met; 
Blue gleaming o'er the social board, 310 
Flashed to the torches many a sword; 
And soon those bridal lights may shine 
On purple blood for rosy wine. 

XVIII 

While thus for blows and death prepared, 
Each heart was up, each weapon bared, 
Each foot advanced, — a surly pause 
Still reverenced hospitable laws. 
All menaced violence, but alike 
Reluctant each the first to strike — 
For aye accursed in minstrel line 320 

Is he who brawls mid song and wine, 
And, matched in numbers and in might, 
Doubtful and desperate seemed the fight. 
Thus threat and murmur died away, 
Till on the crowded hall there lay 
Such silence as the deadly still 
Ere bursts the thunder on the hill. 
With blade advanced, each chieftain bold 
Showed like the Sworder's form of old. 
As wanting still the torch of life 330 

To wake the marble into strife. 

XIX 

That awful pause the stranger maid 

And Edith seized to pray for aid. 

As to De Argentine she clung, 

Away her veil the stranger flung, 

And, lovely mid her wild despair, 

Fast streamed her eyes, wide flowed her 

hair: 
* O thou, of knighthood once the flower. 
Sure refuge in distressful hour. 
Thou who in Judah well hast fought 340 
For our dear faith and oft hast sought 
Renown in knightly exercise 
When this poor hand has dealt the prize. 
Say, can thy soul of honor brook 
On the unequal strife to look. 
When, butchered thus in peaceful hall, 
Those once thy friends, my brethren, fall ! ' 
To Argentine she turned her word. 
But her eye sought the Island Lord. 
A flush like evening's setting flame 350 

Glowed on his cheek ; his hardy frame 
As with a brief convulsion shook: 
With hurried voice and eager look, 
^ Fear not,' he said, * my Isabel ! 
What said I — Edith J — all is well — 
Nay, fear not — I will well provide 
The safety of my lovely bride — 



My bride ?' — but there the accents clung 
In tremor to his faltering tongue. 

XX 

Now rose De Argentine to claim 360 

The prisoners in his sovereign's name 
To England's crown, who, vassals sworn, 
'Gainst their liege lord had weapon 

borne — 
Such speech, I ween, was but to hide 
His care their safety to provide; 
For knight more true in thought and deed 
Than Argentine ne'er spurred a steed — 
And Ronald who his meaning guessed 
Seemed half to sanction the request. 
This purpose fiery Torquil broke: 370 

* Somewhat we 've heard of England's 

yoke,' 
He said, * and in our islands Fame 
Hath whispered of a lawful claim 
That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's lord. 
Though dispossessed by foreign sword. 
This craves reflection — but though right 
And just the charge of England's Knight, 
Let England's crown her rebels seize 
Where she has power; — in towers like 

these, 379 

Midst Scottish chieftains summoned here 
To bridal mirth and bridal cheer, 
Be sure, with no consent of mine 
Shall either Lorn or Argentine 
With chains or violence, in our sight, 
Oppress a brave and banished knight.' 

XXI 

Then waked the wild debate again 
With brawling threat and clamor vain. 
Vassals and menials thronging in 
Lent their brute rage to swell the din ; 
When far and wide a bugle-clang 390 

From the dark ocean upward rang. 

* The abbot comes ! ' they cry at once, 

* The holy man, whose favored glance 

Hath sainted visions known; 
Angels have met him on the way. 
Beside the blessed martyr's bay. 
And by Columba's stone. 
His monks have heard their hymnings 

high 
Sound from the summit of Dun-Y, 

To cheer his penance lone, 400 

When at each cross, on girth and wold — 
Their number thrice a hundred-fold — 
His prayer he made, his beads he told. 
With Aves many a one — 



CANTO SECOND 



325 



He comes our feuds to reconcile, 
A sainted man from sainted isle; 
We will his holy doom abide, 
The abbot shall our strife decide/ 

XXII 

Scarcely this fair accord was o'er 

When through the wide revolving door 410 

The black-stoled brethren wind; 
Twelve sandalled monks who relics bore, 
With many a torch-bearer before 

And many a cross behind. 
Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand, 
And dagger bright and flashing brand 

Dropped swiftly at the sight; 
They vanished from the Churchman's eye. 
As shooting stars that glance and die 

Dart from the vault of night. 420 

XXIII 
The abbot on the threshold stood, 
And in his hand the holy rood; 
Back on his shoulders flowed his hood, 

The torch's glaring ray 
Showed in its red and flashing light 
His withered cheek and amice white, 
His blue eye glistening cold and bright, 

His tresses scant and gray. 
* Fair Lords,' he said, * Our Lady's love. 
And peace be with you from above, 430 

And Benedicite ! — 
But what means this ? — no peace is 

here ! — 
Do dirks unsheathed suit bridal cheer ? 

Or are these naked brands 
A seemly show for Churchman's sight 
When he comes summoned to unite 

Betrothed hearts and hands ? ' 

XXIV 

Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal, 
Proud Lorn first answered the appeal: 

*Thou com'st, O holy man, 440 

True sons of blessed church to greet, 
But little deeming here to meet 

A wretch beneath the ban 
Of Pope and Churcli for murder done 
Even on the sacred altar-stone — 
Well mayst thou wonder we should know 
Such miscreant here, nor lay him low, 
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce, 
With excommunicated Bruce ! 
Yet well I grant, to end debate, 450 

Thy sainted voice decide his fate.' 



XXV 

Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause. 
And knighthood's oath and honor's laws; 
And Isabel on bended knee 
Brought prayers and tears to back the 

plea; 
And Edith lent her generous aid, 
And wept, and Lorn for mercy prayed. 

* Hence,' he exclaimed, * degenerate maid ! 
Was 't not enough to Ronald's bower 

I brought thee, like a paramour, 460 

Or bond-maid at her master's gate, 
His careless cold approach to wait ? — 
But the bold Lord of Cumberland, 
The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand; 
His it shall be — Nay, no reply ! 
Hence ! till those rebel eyes be dry.' 
With grief the abbot heard and saw, 
Yet nought relaxed his brow of awe. 

XXVI 

Then Argentine, in England's name. 
So highly urged his sovereign's claim 470 
He waked a spark that long suppressed 
Had smouldered in Lord Ronald's breast; 
And now, as from the flint the fire. 
Flashed forth at once his generous ire. 

* Enough of noble blood,' he said, 

* By English Edward had been shed, 
Since matchless Wallace first had been 

In mockery crowned with wreaths of green, 

And done to death by felon hand 

For guarding well his father's land. 480 

Where 's Nigel Bruce ? and De la Haye, 

And valiant Seton — where are they ? 

Where Somerville, the kind and free ? 

And Eraser, flower of chivalry ? 

Have they not been on gibbet bound, 

Their quarters flung to hawk and hound, 

And hold we here a cold debate 

To yield more victims to their fate ? 

What ! can the English Leopard's mood 

Never be gorged with northern blood ? 490 

Was not the life of Athole shed 

To soothe the tyrant's sickened bed ? 

And must his word till dying day 

Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay ! — 

Thou f rown'st, De Argentine, — my gaga 

Is prompt to prove the strife I wage.' 

XXVII 

* Nor deem,' said stout Dunvegan's knight, 

* That thou shalt brave alone the fight ! 
By saints of isle and mainland both. 



326 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



By Woden wild — my grandsire's oath — 500 
Let Rome and England do their worst, 
Howe'er attainted or accursed, 
If Bruce shall e'er find friends again 
Once more to brave a battle-plain, 
If Douglas couch again his lance, 
Or Randolph dare another chance, 
Old Torquil will not be to lack 
With twice a thousand at his back. — 
Nay, chafe not at my bearing bold. 
Good abbot ! for thou know'st of old, 510 
Torquil's rude thought and stubborn will 
Smack of the wild Norwegian still; 
Nor will I barter Freedom's cause ' 
For England's wealth or Rome's ap- 
plause.' 

XXVIII 
The abbot seemed with eye severe 
The hardy chieftain's speech to hear; 
Then on King Robert turned the monk. 
But twice his courage came and sunk, 
Confronted with the hero's look; 
Twice fell his eye, his accents shook; 520 
At length, resolved in tone and brow, 
Sternly he questioned him — * And thou 
Unhappy ! what hast thou to plead. 
Why I denounce not on thy deed 
That awful doom which canons tell 
Shuts paradise and opens hell; 
Anathema of power so dread 
It blends the living with the dead, 
Bids each good angel soar away 
And every ill one claim his prey; 530 

Expels thee from the church's care 
And deafens Heaven against thy prayer; 
Arms every hand against thy life. 
Bans all who aid thee in the strife. 
Nay, each whose succor, cold and scant. 
With meanest alms relieves thy want; 
Haunts thee while living, —and when dead 
Dwells on thy yet devoted head, 
Rends Honor's scutcheon from thy hearse, 
Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse," 540 

And spurns thy corpse from hallowed 

ground, 
Flung like vile carrion to the hound: 
Such is the dire and desperate doom 
For sacrilege, decreed by Rome: 
And such the well-deserved meed 
Of thine unhallowed, ruthless deed.' 



XXIX 



* Abbot ! ' the Bruce replied, ' thy charge 
It boots not to dispute at large. 



550 



560 



This much, howe'er, I bid thee know. 

No selfish vengeance dealt the blow ' 

For Comyn died his country's foe. ' 

Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed 

-bumlled my soon-repented deed, 

Nor censure those from whose stern tonffue 

Ihe dire anathema has rung. 

I only blame mine own wild ire. 

By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire. 

Heaven knows my purpose to atone, * 

Far as I may, the evil done, 

And hears a penitent's appeal 

From papal curse and prelate's zeal 

My first and dearest task achieved. 

Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved 

Shall many a priest in cope and stole ' 

Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul, 

While I the blessed cross advance ' 

And expiate this unhappy chance 

In Palestine with sword and lance. 

But, while content the Church should know 

My conscience owns the debt I owe ryo 

Unto De Argentine and Lorn ' 

The name of traitor I return. 

Bid them defiance stern and high. 

And give them in their thi-oats the lie » 

These brief words spoke, I speak no more. 

Do what thou wilt; my shrift is o'er.' 

XXX 
Like man by prodigy amazed. 
Upon the king the abbot gazed; 
Then o'er his pallid features glance 
Convulsions of ecstatic trance. 580 

His breathing came more thick and fast, 
And from his pale blue eyes were cast 
Strange rays of wild and wandering %ht- 
Uprise his locks of silver white, ' 

Flushed is his brow, through every vein 

In azure tide the currents strain. 

And undistinguished accents broke 

The awful silence ere he spoke. 

XXXI 
* De Bruce ! I rose with purpose dread 
To speak my curse upon thy head, 590 

And give thee as an outcast o'er 
To him who burns to shed thy gore- — 
But, like the Midianite of old ' 

Who stood on Zophim, Heave u-cont rolled, 
1 leel within mine aged breast 
A power that will not be repressed. 
It prompts my voice, it swells my veins, 
It burns, it maddens, it constrains ! — 
De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow 



CANTO THIRD 



327 



Hath at God's altar slain thy foe: 600 

Overmastered yet by high behest, 
I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed ! ' 
He spoke, and o'er the astonished throng 
Was silence, awful, deep, and long. 

XXXII 

Again that light has fired his eye, 
Again his form swells bold and high, 
The broken voice of age is gone, 
T is vigorous manhood's lofty tone: 
* Thrice vanquished on the battle-plain, 
Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or ta'en, 610 
A hunted wanderer on the wild. 
On foreign shores a man exiled. 
Disowned, deserted, and distressed, 
I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed ! 
Blessed in the hall and in the field. 
Under the mantle as the shield. 
Avenger of thy country's shame, 
Restorer of her injured fame. 
Blessed in thy sceptre and thy sword, 
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful lord, 620 
Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame, 
What lengthened honors wait thy name ! 
In distant ages sire to son 
Shall tell thy tale of freedom won. 
And teach his infants in the use 
Of earliest speech to falter Bruce. 
Go, then, triumphant ! sweep along 
Thy course, the theme of many a song ! 
The Power whose dictates swell my breast 
Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be 
blessed ! — 630 

Enough — my short-lived strength de- 
cays, 
And sinks the momentary blaze. — 
Heaven hath our destined purpose broke. 
Not here must nuptial vow be spoke; 
Brethren, our errand here is o'er. 
Our task discharged. — Unmoor, unmoor ! ' 
His priests received the exhausted monk. 
As breathless in their arms he sunk. 
Punctual his orders to obey, 
The train refused all longer stay, 640 

Embarked, raised sail, and bore away. 



CANTO THIRD 



Hast tliou not marked when o'er thy 

startled head 
Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has 

rolled, 



How, when its echoes fell, a silence dead 
Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and the 

wold? 
The rye-grass shakes not on the sod-built 

fold, 
The rustling aspen's leaves are mute and 

still. 
The wall-flower waves not on the ruined 

hold. 
Till, murmuring distant first, then near 

and shrill. 
The savage whirlwind wakes and sweeps 

the groaning hill. 

II 
Artornish ! such a silence sunk 10 

Upon thy halls, when that gray monk 

His prophet-speech had spoke; 
And his obedient brethren's sail 
Was stretched to meet the southern gale 

Before a whisper woke. 
Then murmuring sounds of doubt and 

fear. 
Close poured in many an anxious ear, 

The solemn stillness broke; 
And still they gazed with eager guess 
Where in an oriel's deep recess 20 

The Island Prince seemed bent to press 
What Lorn, by his impatient cheer 
And gesture fierce, scarce deigned to hear. 

Ill 
Starting at length with frowning look, 
His hand he clenched, his head he shook. 

And sternly flung apart: 
* And deem'st thou me so mean of mood 
As to forget the mortal feud, 
And clasp the hand with blood imbrued 

From my dear kinsman's heart ? 30 

Is this thy rede ? — a due return 
For ancient league and friendship sworn ! 
But well our mountain proverb shows 
The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows. 
Be it even so — believe ere long 
He that now bears shall wreak the wrong. — 
Call Edith -— call the Maid of Lorn ! 
My sister, slaves ! — for further scorn, 
Be sure nor she nor I will stay. — 
Away, De Argentine, away ! — 40 

We nor ally nor brother know 
In Bruce's friend or England's foe.' 

IV 

But who the chieftain's rage can tell 
When, sought from lowest dungeon cell 



328 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



60 



70 



To highest tower the castle round, 
No Lady Edith was there found ! 
He shouted, * Falsehood .'—treachery ! — 
Kevenge and blood ! — a lordly meed 
lo him that will avenge the deed I 
A baron's lands ! ' — His frantic mood 
Was scarcely by the news withstood 
That Morag shared his sister's flight, 
And that in hurry of the night, 
Reaped noteless and without remark. 
Two strangers sought the abbot's bark. — 
'Man every galley l—fLj — pursue I 
Ine priest his treachery shall rue ! 
Ay, and the time shall quickly come 
When we shall hear the thanks that Rome 
Will pay his feigned prophecy 1 ' 
Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry 
And Cormac Doil in haste obeyed, ' 

Hoisted his sail, his anchor weighed 

For, glad of each pretext for spoil, 
A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil. 
But others, lingering, spoke apart, 
* The maid has given her maiden heart 

To Ronald of the Isles, 
And, fearful lest her brother's word 
Bestow her on that English lord. 

She seeks lona's piles. 
And wisely deems it best to dwell 
A votaress in the holy cell 
Until these feuds so fierce and fell 
The abbot reconciles.' 

V 
As, impotent of ire, the hall 
Echoed to Lorn's impatient call — 
•My horse, my mantle, and my train ! 

Let none who honors Lorn remain ! ' 

Courteous but stern, a bold request' 80 

lo Bruce De Argentine expressed: 
'Lord Earl,' he said, ' I cannot chuse 
But yield such title to the Bruce, 
Though name and earldom both are ffone 
Since he braced rebel's armor on— - 
But, earl or serf — rude phrase was thine 
Ut late, and launched at Argentine- 
Such as compels me to demand ' 
Redress of honor at thy hand. 
We need not to each other tell ^o 

That both can wield their weapons well- 
Ihen do me but the soldier grace ' 
This glove upon thy helm to place 

Where we may meet in fight- 
And I will say, as still I 've said, 
Ihough by ambition far misled, 
Thou art a noble knight.' 



so 



VI 

'^^^ ^'' *^^ princely Bruce replied, 
'Might term it stain on knighthood's pride 
That the bright sword of Argentine xoc 
fcbould m a tyrant's quarrel shine; 

But, for your brave request. 
Be sure the honored pledge you ffave 
In every battle-field shall wave 

Upon my helmet-crest; 
Believe that if my hasty tongue 
Hath done thine honor causeless wronff, 

It shall be well redressed. 
Not dearer to my soul was glove 
Bestowed in youth by lady's love 

Ihan this which thou hast given » 
Thus then my noble foe I greet; 
Health and high fortune till we meet. 

And then — what pleases Heaven.' 

VII 

Thus parted they — for now, with sound 
Like waves rolled back from rocky ground, 

Ihe triends of Lorn retire; 
Each mainland chieftain with his train 
^raws to his mountain towers again, ,xo 
Fondering how mortal schemes prove vain 

And mortal hopes expire. 
But through the castle double guard 
By Ronald's charge kept wakeful ward, 
Wicket and gate were trebly barred 

By beam and bolt and chain; 
Then of the guests in courteous sort 
He prayed excuse for mirth broke short. 
And bade them in Artornish fort 

In confidence remain. 
Now torch and menial tendance led x^o 
Chieftain and knight to bower and bed. 
And beads were told and Aves said 
And soon they sunk away ' 

Into such sleep as wont'to shed 
Oblivion on the weary head 
After a toilsome day. 

VIII 

But soon uproused, the monarch cried 
lo Edward slumbering by his side 
* Awake, or sleep for aye ! ' 

Even now there jarred a secret door— 140 
A taper-light gleams on the floor — 

Up, Edward f up, I say I 
Some one glides in like midnight ffhost — 
Nay, strike not ! 't is our noble host ' 
Advancing then his taper's flame, 
Ronald stept forth, and with him came 



Kdu 



CANTO THIRD 



329 



unvegan's chief — each bent the knee 
To Bruce in sign of fealty 

And proffered him his sword, 
And hailed him in a monarch's style 150 
As king of mainland and of isle 
And Scotland's rightful lord. 
' And O,' said Ronald, * Owned of Heaven ! 
Say, is my erring youth forgiven, 
By falsehood's arts from duty driven, 

Who rebel falchion drew. 
Yet ever to thy deeds of fame. 
Even while I strove against thy claim, 
Paid homage just and true ? ' — 

* Alas ! dear youth, the unhappy time,' 160 
Answered the Bruce, * must bear the crime 

Since, guiltier far than you. 
Even I ' — he paused; for Falkirk's woes 
Upon his conscious soul arose. 
The chieftain to his breast he pressed, 
And in a sigh concealed the rest. 

IX 

They proffered aid by arms and might 
To repossess him in his right; 
But well their counsels must be weighed 
Ere banners raised and musters made, 170 
For English hire and Lorn's intrigues 
Bound many chiefs in southern leagues. 
In answer Bruce his purpose bold 
To his new vassals frankly told: 

* The winter worn in exile o'er, 

I longed for Carrick's kindred shore. 

I thought upon my native Ayr 

And longed to see the burly fare 

That Clifford makes, whose lordly call 

Now echoes through my father's hall. 180 

But first my course to Arran led 

Where valiant Lennox gathers head. 

And on the sea by tempest tossed. 

Our barks dispersed, our purpose crossed. 

Mine own, a hostile sail to shun. 

Far from her destined course had run. 

When that wise will which masters ours 

Compelled us to your friendly towers.' 



Then Torquil spoke : * The time craves 

speed ! 
We must not linger in our deed, 190 

But instant pray our sovereign liege 
To shun the perils of a siege. 
The vengeful Lorn with all his powers 
Lies but too near Artornish towers, 
And England's light-armed vessels ride 
Not distant far the waves of Clyde, 



Prompt at these tidings to unmoor. 

And sweep each strait and guard each 

shore. 
Then, till this fresh alarm pass by, 
Secret and safe my liege must lie 200 

In the far bounds of friendly Skye, 
Torquil thy pilot and thy guide.' — 

* Not so, brave chieftain,' Ronald cried; 

* Myself will on my sovereign wait. 
And raise in arms the men of Sleate, 
Whilst thou, renowned where chiefs debate, 
Shalt sway their souls by council sage 
And awe them by thy locks of age.' — 

* And if my words in weight shall fail, 209 
This ponderous sword shall turn the scale.' 

XI 

* The scheme,' said Bruce, ' contents me 

well; 
Meantime, 't were best that Isabel 
For safety with my bark and crew 
Again to friendly Erin drew. 
There Edward too shall with her wend, 
In need to cheer her and defend 
And muster up each scattered friend.' 
Here seemed it as Lord Ronald's ear 
Would other counsel gladlier hear; 
But, all achieved as soon as planned, 220 
Both barks, in secret armed and manned, 

From out the haven bore ; 
On different voyage forth they ply, 
This for the coast of winged Skye 

And that for Erin's shore. 

XII 

With Bruce and Ronald bides the tale. — 

To favoring winds they gave the sail 

Till Mull's dark headlands scarce they 

knew 
And Ardnamurchan's hills were blue. 229 
But then the squalls blew close and hard, 
And, fain to strike the galley's yard 

And take them to the oar, 
With these rude seas in weary plight 
They strove the livelong day and night, 
Nor till the dawning had a sight 
Of Skye's romantic shore. 
Where Cool in stoops him to the west, 
They saw upon his shivered crest 

The sun's arising gleam; 
But such the labor and delay, 240 

Ere they were moored in Scavigh bay — 
For calmer heaven compelled to stay — 

He shot a western beam. 
Then Ronald said, * If true mine eye, 



330 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



These are the savage wilds that lie 
North of Strathnardill and Dunskye; 

No human foot comes here, 
And, since these adverse breezes blow, 
If my good liege love hunter's bow, 
What hinders that on land we go 250 

And strike a mountain-deer ? 
Allan, my page, shall with us wend; 
A bow full deftly can he bend. 
And, if we meet a herd, may send 

A shaft shall mend our cheer.' 
Then each took bow and bolts in hand. 
Their row-boat launched and leapt to land. 

And left their skiff and train. 
Where a wild stream with headlong shock 
Came brawling down its bed of rock 260 

To mingle with the main. 

XIII 

Awhile their route they silent made. 

As men who stalk for mountain-deer. 
Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, — 

* Saint Mary ! what a scene is here ! 
I 've traversed many a mountain-strand, 
Abroad and in my native land. 
And it has been my lot to tread 
Where safety more than pleasure led; 269 
Thus, many a waste I 've wandered o'er, 
Clomb many a crag, crossed many a moor. 

But, by my halidome, 
A scene so rude, so wild as this, 
Yet so sublime in barrenness. 
Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press 

Where'er I happed to roam.' 

XIV 

No marvel thus the monarch spake; 

For rarely human eye has known 
A scene so stern as that dread lake 

With its dark ledge of barren stone. 280 
Seems that primeval earthquake's sway 
Hath rent a strange and shattered way 

Through the rude bosom of the hill, 
And that each naked precipice, 
Sable ravine, and dark abyss. 

Tells of the outrage still. 
The wildest glen but this can show 
Some touch of Nature's genial glow; 
On high Benmore green mosses grow, 
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, 290 

And copse on Cruchan-Ben; 
But here, — above, around, below. 

On mountain or in glen. 
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, 
Nor aught of vegetative power, 



The weary eye may ken. 
For all is rocks at random thrown. 
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of 
stone. 

As if were here denied 299 

The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew, 
That clothe with many a varied hue 

The bleakest mountain-side. 

XV 
And wilder, forward as they wound. 
Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. 
Huge terraces of granite black 
Afforded rude and cumbered track; 

For from the mountain hoar. 
Hurled headlong in some night of fear, 
When yelled the wolf and fled the deer, 

Loose crags had toppled o'er; 310 

And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay 
So that a stripling arm might sway 

A mass no host could raise. 
In Nature's rage at random thrown 
Yet trembling like the Druid's stone 

On its precarious base. 
The evening mists with ceaseless change 
Now clothed the mountains' lofty range. 

Now left their foreheads bare, 319 

And round the skirts their mantle furled, 
Or on the sable waters curled; 
Or on the eddying breezes whirled, 

Dispersed in middle air. 
And oft condensed at once they lower 
When, brief and fierce, the mountain 
shower 

Pours like a torrent down. 
And when return the sun's glad beams. 
Whitened with foam a thousand streams 

Leap from the mountain's crown. 

XVI 

* This lake,' said Bruce, * whose barriers 

drear 
Are precipices sharp and sheer. 
Yielding no track for goat or deer 

Save the black shelves we tread. 
How term you its dark waves ? and how 
Yon northern mountain's pathless brow, 

And yonder peak of dread 
That to the evening sun uplifts 
The griesly gulfs and slaty rifts 

Which seam its shivered head ? ' — 

* Coriskin call the dark lake's name, 340 
Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim, 
From old Cuchullin, chief of fame. 

But bards, familiar in our isles 



330 



CANTO THIRD 



331 



Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles, 

Full oft their careless humors please 

By sportive names from scenes like these. 

I would old Torquil were to show 

His Maidens with their breasts of snow, 

Or that my noble liege were nigh 

To hear his Nurse sing lullaby ! — 350 

The Maids — tall cliffs with breakers 

white, 
The Nurse — a torrent's roaring might — 
Or that your eye could see the mood 
Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude, 
When dons the Hag her whitened hood — 
'T is thus our islesmen's fancy frames 
For scenes so stern fantastic names.' 

XVII 

Answered the Bruce, * And musing mind 

Might here a graver moral find. 

These mighty cliffs that heave on high 360 

Their naked brows to middle sky, 

Indifferent to the sun or snow. 

Where nought can fade and nought can 

blow 
May they not mark a monarch's fate, — 
Raised high mid storms of strife and state. 
Beyond life's lowlier pleasures placed. 
His soul a rock, his heart a waste ? 
O'er hope and love and fear aloft 
High rears his crowned head — But soft ! 
Look, underneath yon jutting crag 370 

Are hunters and a slaughtered stag. 
Who may they be ? But late you said 
No steps these desert regions tread ? ' — 

XVIII 

' So said I — and believed in sooth,' 

Ronald replied, * I spoke the truth. 

Yet now I spy, by yonder stone. 

Five men — they mark us and come on ; 

And by their badge on bonnet borne 

I guess them of the land of Lorn, 

Foes to my liege.' — ' So let it be ; 380 

I 've faced worse odds than five to three — 

But the poor page can little aid; 

Then be our battle thus arrayed. 

If our free passage they contest; 

Cope thou with two, I '11 match the rest.' — 

* Not so, my liege — for, by my life. 

This sword shall meet the treble strife; 

My strength, my skill in arms, more small. 

And less the loss should Ronald fall. 

But islesmen soon to soldiers grow, 390 

Allan has sword as well as bow. 

And were my monarch's order given, 



Two shafts should make our number 
even.' — 

* No ! not to save my life ! ' he said; 

* Enough of blood rests on my head 

Too rashly spilled — we soon shall know, 
Whether they come as friend or foe.' 

XIX 
Nigh came the strangers and more nigh; — 
Still less they pleased the monarch's eye. 
Men were they all of evil mien, 400 

Down-looked, unwilling to be seen; 
They moved with half-resolved pace, 
And bent on earth each gloomy face. 
The foremost two were fair arrayed 
With brogue and bonnet, trews and plaid, 
And bore the arms of mountaineers. 
Daggers and broadswords, bows and 

spears. 
The three that lagged small space behind 
Seemed serfs of more degraded kind; 
Goat-skins or deer-hides o'er them cast 410 
Made a rude fence against the blast; 
Their arms and feet and heads were bare. 
Matted their beards, unshorn their hair; 
For arms the caitiffs bore in hand 
A club, an axe, a rusty brand. 

XX 

Onward still mute, they kept the track; — 

* Tell who ye be, or else stand back,' 
Said Bruce; * in deserts when they meet. 
Men pass not as in peaceful street.' 

Still at his stern command they stood, 420 
And proffered greeting brief and rude. 
But acted courtesy so ill 
As seemed of fear and not of will. 

* Wanderers we are, as you may be; 
Men hither driven by wind and sea, 
Who, if you list to taste our cheer, 
Will share with you this fallow deer.' — 

* If from the sea, where lies your bark ? ' — 

* Ten fathom deep in ocean dark ! 
Wrecked yesternight: but we are men 430 
Who little sense of peril ken. 

The shades come down — the day is shut — 
Will you go with us to our hut ? ' — 

* Our vessel waits us in the bay; 

Thanks for your proffer — have good- 
day.' — 

* Was that your galley, then, which rode 
Not far from shore when evening 

glowed ? ' — 

* It was.' — * Then spare your needless 

pain, 



332 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



There will she now be sought in vain. 

We saw her from the mountain head 440 

When, with Saint George's blazon red 

A southern vessel bore in sight, 

And yours raised sail and took to flight.' — 

XXI 

' Now, by the rood, unwelcome news ! ' 
Thus with Lord Ronald communed Bruce; 

* Nor rests there light enough to show 
If this their tale be true or no. 

The men seem bred of churlish kind, 
Yet mellow nuts have hardest rind; 
We will go with them — food and fire 450 
And sheltering roof our wants require. 
Sure guard 'gainst treachery will we keep. 
And watch by turns our comrades' sleep. — 
Good fellows, thanks ; your guests we '11 be, 
And well will pay the courtesy. 
Come, lead us where your lodging lies — 
Nay, soft ! we mix not companies. — 
Show us the path o'er crag and stone, 
And we will follow you; — lead on.' 

XXII 

They reached the dreary cabin, made 460 
Of sails against a rock displayed. 

And there on entering found 
A slender boy, whose form and mien 
111 suited with such savage scene, 
In cap and cloak of velvet green, 

Low seated on the ground. 
His garb was such as minstrels wear. 
Dark was his hue, and dark his hair. 
His youthful cheek was marred by care. 

His eyes in sorrow drowned. 470 

* Whence this poor boy ? ' — As Ronald 

spoke, 
The voice his trance of anguish broke ; 
As if awaked from ghastly dream. 
He raised his head with start and scream, 

And wildly gazed around; 
Then to the wall his face he turned. 
And his dark neck with blushes burned. 

XXIII 

* Whose is the boy ? ' again he said. 

* By chance of war our captive made; 

He may be yours, if you should hold 480 
That music has more charms than gold; 
For, though from earliest childhood mute. 
The lad can deftly touch the lute. 
And on the rote and viol play. 
And well can drive the time away 
For those who love such glee; 



For me the favoring breeze, when loud 
It pipes upon the galley's shroud. 
Makes blither melody.' — 

* Hath he, then, sense of spoken sound ? ' — 

*Ay; so his mother bade us know, 491 
A crone in our late shipwreck drowned. 

And hence the silly stripling's woe. 
More of the youth I cannot say. 
Our captive but since yesterday; 
When wind and weather waxed so grim, 
We little listed think of him. — 
But why waste time in idle words ? 
Sit to your cheer — unbelt your swords.' 
Sudden the captive turned his head, 500 
And one quick glance to Ronald sped. 
It was a keen and warning look. 
And well the chief the signal took. 

XXIV 

* Kind host,' he said, * our needs require 
A separate board and separate fire; 
For know that on a pilgrimage 

Wend I, my comrade, and this page. 
And, sworn to vigil and to fast 
Long as this hallowed task shall last, 
We never doff the plaid or sword, 51© 

Or feast us at a stranger's board. 
And never share one common sleep, 
But one must still his vigil keep. 
Thus, for our separate use, good friend, 
We '11 hold this hut's remoter end.' — 

* A churlish vow,' the elder said, 

* And hard, methinks, to be obeyed. 
How say you, if, to wreak the scorn 
That pays our kindness harsh return, 

We should refuse to share our meal ? ' — 520 

* Then say we that our swords are steel ! 
And our vow binds us not to fast 
Where gold or force may buy repast.' — 
Their host's dark brow grew keen and 

fell. 
His teeth are clenched, his features swell; 
Yet sunk the felon's moody ire 
Before Lord Ronald's glance of fire. 
Nor could his craven courage brook 
The monarch's calm and dauntless look. 
With laugh constrained — 'Let every 

man 530 

Follow the fashion of his clan ! 
Each to his separate quarters keep, 
And feed or fast, or wake or sleep.' 

XXV 

Their fire at separate distance burns. 
By turns they eat, keep guard by turns; 



CANTO THIRD 



333 



For evil seemed that old man's eye, 
Dark and designing, fierce yet shy. 
Still he avoided forward look. 
But slow and circumspectly took 
A circling, never-ceasing glance, 540 

By doubt and cunning marked at once, 
Which shot a mischief-boding ray 
From under eyebrows shagged and gray. 
The younger, too, who seemed his son. 
Had that dark look the timid shun; 
The half-clad serfs behind them sate. 
And scowled a glare 'twixt fear and hate — 
Till all, as darkness onward crept. 
Couched down, and seemed to sleep or 

slept. 
Nor he, that boy, whose powerless 

tongue 550 

Must trust his eyes to wail his wrong, 
A longer watch of sorrow made. 
But stretched his limbs to slumber laid. 

XXVI 

Not in his dangerous host confides 

The king, but wary watch provides. 

Ronald keeps ward till midnight past. 

Then wakes the king, young Allan last; 

Thus ranked, to give the youthful page 

The rest required by tender age. 

What is Lord Ronald's wakeful thought 560 

To chase the languor toil had brought ? — 

For deem not that he deigned to throw 

Much care upon such coward foe — 

He thinks of lovely Isabel 

When at her foeman's feet she fell, 

Nor less when, placed in princely selle, 

She glanced on him with favoring eyes 

At Woodstock when he won the prize. 

Nor, fair in joy, in sorrow fair. 

In pride of place as mid despair, 570 

Must she alone engross his care. 

His thoughts to his betrothed bride. 

To Edith, turn — O, how decide. 

When here his love and heart are given. 

And there his faith stands plight to 

Heaven ! 
No drowsy ward 't is his to keep, 
For seldom lovers long for sleep. 
Till sung his midnight hymn the owl. 
Answered the dog-fox with his howl. 
Then waked the king — at his request, 580 
Lord Ronald stretched himself to rest. 

XXVII 

What spell was good King Robert's, say, 
To drive the weary night away ? 



His was the patriot's burning thought 

Of freedom's battle bravely fought. 

Of castles stormed, of cities freed. 

Of deep design and daring deed. 

Of England's roses reft and torn. 

And Scotland's cross in triumph worn. 

Of rout and rally, war and truce, — 590 

As heroes think, so thought the Bruce. 

No marvel, mid such musings high 

Sleep shunned the monarch's thoughtful 

eye. 
Now over Coolin's eastern head 
The grayish light begins to spread. 
The otter to his cavern drew, 
And clamored shrill the wakening mew; 
Then watched the page — to needful rest 
The king resigned his anxious breast. 

XXVIII 

To Allan's eyes was harder task 60c 

The weary watch their safeties ask. 
He trimmed the fire and gave to shine 
With bickering light the splintered pine; 
Then gazed awhile where silent laid 
Their hosts were shrouded by the plaid. 
But little fear waked in his mind. 
For he was bred of martial kind. 
And, if to manhood he arrive. 
May match the boldest knight alive. 
Then thought he of his mother's tower, 610 
His little sister's greenwood bower. 
How there the Easter-gambols pass. 
And of Dan Joseph's lengthened mass. 
But still before his weary eye 
In rays prolonged the blazes die — 
Again he roused him — on the lake 
Looked forth where now the twilight-flake 
Of pale cold dawn began to wake. 
On Coolin's cliffs the mist lay furled, 
The morning breeze the lake liad curled, 620 
The short dark waves, heaved to the land. 
With ceaseless plash kissed cliff or sand; — 
It was a slumbrous sound — he turned 
To tales at which his youth had burned. 
Of pilgrim's path by demon crossed. 
Of sprightly elf or yelling ghost. 
Of the wild witch's baneful cot. 
And mermaid's ahibaster grot, 
Who bathes her limbs in sunless well 
Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell. 630 
Thither in fancy rapt he flies, 
And on his sight the vaults arise; 
That hut's dark walls he sees no more, 
His foot is on the marble floor, 
And o'er his head the dazzling spars 



334 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



Gleam like a firmament of stars ! — 
Hark ! hears he not the sea-nymph speak 
Her anger in that thrilling shriek ! — 
No ! all too late, with Allan's dream 
Mingled the captive's warning scream. 640 
As from the ground he strives to start, 
A ruffian's dagger finds his heart ! 
Upwards he casts his dizzy eyes — 
Murmurs his master's name — and dies ! 

XXIX 
Not so awoke the king ! his hand 
Snatched from the flame a knotted brand, 
The nearest weapon of his wrath; 
With this he crossed the murderer's path 

And venged young Allan well ! 
The spattered brain and bubbling blood 650 
Hissed on the half-extinguished wood, 

The miscreant gasped and fell ! 
Nor rose in peace the Island Lord; 
One caitiff died upon his sword. 
And one beneath his grasp lies prone 
In mortal grapple overthrown. 
But while Lord Ronald's dagger drank 
The life-blood from his panting flank, 
The father-ruffian of the band 
Behind him rears a coward hand ! — 660 

O for a moment's aid. 
Till Bruce, who deals no double blow, 
Dash to the earth another foe. 

Above his comrade laid ! — 
And it is gained — the captive sprung 
On the raised arm and closely clung. 

And, ere he shook him loose. 
The mastered felon pressed the ground. 
And gasped beneath a mortal wound. 

While o'er him stands the Bruce. 670 

XXX 

* Miscreant ! while lasts thy flitting spark, 
Give me to know the purpose dark 

That armed thy hand with murderous 

knife 
Against offenceless stranger's life ? ' — 

* No stranger thou ! ' with accent fell. 
Murmured the wretch; ' I know thee well, 
And know thee for the foeman sworn 

Of my high chief, the mighty Lorn.' — 

* Speak yet again, and speak the truth 
For thy soul's sake ! — from whence this 

youth ? 680 

His country, birth, and name declare. 
And thus one evil deed repair.' — 

* Vex me no more 1 — my blood runs 

cold — 



No more I know than I have told. 
We found him in a bark we sought 
With different purpose — and I thought ' — 
Fate cut him short; in blood and broil. 
As he had lived, died Cormac Doil. 

XXXI 

Then resting on his bloody blade, 

The valiant Bruce to Ronald said, 69c 

* Now shame upon us both ! — that boy 

Lifts his mute face to heaven 
And clasps his hands, to testify 
His gratitude to God on high 

For strange deliverance given. 
His speechless gesture thanks hath paid. 
Which our free tongues have left unsaid ! * 
He raised the youth with kindly word, 
But marked him shudder at the sword: 
He cleansed it from its hue of death, 700 
And plunged the weapon in its sheath. 
' Alas, poor child ! unfitting part 
Fate doomed when with so soft a heart 

And form so slight as thine 
She made thee first a pirate's slave. 
Then in his stead a patron gave 

Of wayward lot like mine; 
A landless prince, whose wandering life 
Is but one scene of blood and strife — 
Yet scant of friends the Bruce shall be, 710 
But he '11 find resting-place for thee. — 
Come, noble Ronald ! o'er the dead 
Enough thy generous grief is paid. 
And well has Allan's fate been wroke; 
Come, wend we hence — the day has broke. 
Seek we our bark — I trust the tale 
Was false that she had hoisted sail. ' 

XXXII 

Yet, ere they left that charnel-cell. 
The Island Lord bade sad farewell 
To Allan: « Who shall tell this tale,' 720 
He said, ' in halls of Donagaile ? 
O, who his widowed mother tell 
That, ere his bloom, her fairest fell ? — 
Rest thee, poor youth ! and trust my care 
For mass and knell and funeral prayer; 
While o'er those caitiffs where they lie 
The wolf shall snarl, the raven cry ! ' 
And now the eastern mountain's head 
On the dark lake threw lustre red; 
Bright gleams of gold and purple streak jy. 
Ravine and precipice and peak — 
So earthly power at distance shows; 
Reveals his splendor, hides his woes. 
O'er sheets of granite, dark and broad, 



CANTO FOURTH 



335 



Rent and unequal, lay the road. 
In sad discourse the warriors wind, 
And the mute captive moves behind. 



CANTO FOURTH 



Stranger ! if e'er thine ardent step 

hath traced 
The northern realms of ancient Caledon, 
Where the proud Queen of Wilderness 

hath placed 
By lake and cataract her lonely throne, 
Sublime but sad delight thy soul hath 

known, 
Gazing on pathless glen and mountain 

high, 
Listing where from the cliffs the torrents 

thrown 

Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry. 
And with the sounding lake and with the 

moaning sky. 

Yes ! 't was sublime, but sad. — The 

loneliness lo 

Loaded thy heart, the desert tired thine 

eye; 
And strange and awful fears began to 

press 
Thy bosom with a stern solemnity. 
Then hast thou wished some woodman's 

cottage nigh, 
Something that showed of life, though 

low and mean; 
Glad sight, its curling wreath of smoke 

to spy. 
Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol would 

have been. 
Or children whooping wild beneath the 

willows green. 

Such are the scenes where savage gran- 
deur wakes 

An awful thrill that softens into sighs; 20 

Such feelings rouse them by dim Ran- 
noch's lakes, 

In dark Glencoe such gloomy raptures 
rise: 

Or farther, where beneath the northern 
skies 

Chides wild Loch-Eribol his caverns 
hoar — 

But, be the minstrel judge, they yield the 
prize 



Of desert dignity to that dread shore 
That sees grim Coolin rise and hears Coris- 
kin roar. 

II 

Through such wild scenes the champion 

passed. 
When bold halloo and bugle-blast 
Upon the breeze came loud and fast. 30 

* There,' said the Bruce, * rung Edward's 

horn ! 
What can have caused such brief return ? 
And see, brave Ronald, — see him dart 
O'er stock and stone like hunted hart. 
Precipitate, as is the use, 
In war or sport, of Edward Bruce. 
He marks us, and his eager cry 
Will tell his news ere he be nigh.' 

Ill 

Loud Edward shouts, * What make ye 

here. 
Warring upon the mountain-deer, 40 

When Scotland wants her king ? 
A bark from Lennox crossed our track, 
With her in speed I hurried back. 

These joyful news to bring — 
The Stuart stirs in Teviotdale, 
And Douglas wakes his native vale; 
Thy storm-tossed fleet hath won its way 
With little loss to Brodick-Bay, 
And Lennox with a gallant band 
Waits but thy coming and command 50 

To waft them o'er to Carrick strand. 
There are blithe news ! — but mark the 

close ! 
Edward, the deadliest of our foes, 
As with his host he northward passed, 
Hath on the borders breathed his last.' 

IV 

Still stood the Bruce — his steady cheek 
Was little wont his joy to speak. 
But then his color rose: — 

* Now, Scotland ! shortly shalt thou see. 
With God's high will, thy chikiren free 6c 

And vengeance on thy foes ! 
Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs. 
Bear witness with me, Heaven, belongs 

My joy o'er Edward's bier; 
I took my kniglitliood at his liand, 
And lordship held of him and land. 

And well may vouch it here. 
That, blot the story from his page 
Of Scotland ruined in his rage, 



33^ 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



You read a monarch brave and sage 70 

And to his people dear.' — 
■^ Let London's burghers mourn her lord 
And Croydon monks his praise record/ 

The eager Edward said; 
* Eternal as his own, my hate 
Surmounts the bounds of mortal fate 

And dies not with the dead ! 
Such hate was his on Solway's strand 
When vengeance clenched his palsied hand, 
That pointed yet to Scotland's land, 80 

As his last accents prayed 
Disgrace and curse upon his heir 
If he one Scottish head should spare 
Till stretched upon the bloody lair 

Each rebel corpse was laid ! 
Such hate was his when his last breath 
denounced the peaceful house of death, 
And bade his bones to Scotland's coast 
Be borne by his remorseless host, 
As if his dead and stony eye 90 

Could still enjoy her misery ! 
Such hate was his — dark, deadly, long; 
Mine — as enduring, deep, and strong ! ' — 



' Let women, Edward, war with words. 
With curses monks, but men with swords: 
Nor doubt of living foes to sate 
Deepest revenge and deadliest hate. 
Now to the sea ! Behold the beach. 
And see the galley's pendants stretch 
Their fluttering length down favoring 

gale ! 100 

Aboard, aboard ! and hoist the sail. 
Hold we our way for Arran first. 
Where meet in arms our friends dispersed; 
Lennox the loyal, De la Haye, 
And Boyd the bold in battle fray. 
I long the hardy band to head. 
And see once more my standard spread. — 
Does noble Ronald share our course. 
Or stay to raise his island force ? ' — 
* Come weal, come woe, by Bruce's 

side,' no 

Replied the chief, * will Ronald bide. 
And since two galleys yonder ride, 
Be mine, so please my liege, dismissed 
To wake to arms the clans of Uist, 
And all who hear the Minche's roar 
On the Long Island's lonely shore. 
The nearer Isles with slight delay 
Ourselves may summon in our way; 
And soon on Arran's shore shall meet 
With Torquil's aid a gallant fleet, 120 



If aught avails their chieftain's best 
Among the islesmen of the west.' 

VI 

Thus was their venturous council said. 
But, ere their sails the galleys spread, 
Coriskin dark and Coolin high 
Echoed the dirge's doleful cry. 
Along that sable lake passed slow — 
Fit scene for such a sight of woe — 
The sorrowing islesmen as they bore 
The murdered Allan to the shore. 13c 

At every pause with dismal shout 
Their coronach of grief rung out. 
And ever when they moved again 
The pipes resumed their clamorous strain, 
And with the pibroch's shrilling wail 
Mourned the young heir of Donagaile. 
Round and around, from cliff and cave 
His answer stern old Coolin gave, 
Till high upon his misty side 139 

Languished the mournful notes and died. 
For never sounds by mortal made 
Attained his high and haggard head, 
That echoes but the tempest's moan 
Or the deep thunder's rending groan. 

vn 

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark, 

She bounds before the gale. 
The mountain breeze from Ben-na-darch 

Is joyous in her sail ! 
With fluttering sound like laughter hoarse 

The cords and canvas strain, 15c 

The waves, divided by her force. 
In rippling eddies chased her course, 

As if they laughed again. 
Not down the breeze more blithely flew, 
Skimming the wave, the light sea-mew 

Than the gay galley bore 
Her course upon that favoring wind, 
And Coolin's crest has sunk behind 

And Slapin's caverned shore. 
'T was then that warlike signals wake 160 
Dunscaith's dark towers and Eisord's lake. 
And soon from Cavilgarrigh's head 
Thick wreaths of eddying smoke were 

spread; 
A summons these of war and wrath 
To the brave clans of Sleat and Strath, 

And ready at the sight 
Each warrior to his weapon spFung 
And targe upon his shoulder flung. 

Impatient for the fight. 
Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare gray, 170 



CANTO FOURTH 



337 



Had charge to muster their array 
And guide their barks to Brodick Bay. 

VIII 

Signal of Ronald's high command, 

A beacon gleamed o'er sea and land 

From Canna's tower, that, steep and gray, 

Like falcon-nest o'erhangs the bay. 

Seek not the giddy crag to climb 

To view the turret scathed by time; 

It is a task of doubt and fear 

To aught but goat or mountain-deer. 180 

But rest thee on the silver beach, 

And let the aged herdsman teach 
His tale of former day; 

His cur's wild clamor he shall chide, 

And for thy seat by ocean's side 
His varied plaid display; 

Then tell how with their chieftain came 

In ancient times a foreign dame 
To yonder turret gray. 
Stern was her lord's suspicious mind 190 
Who in so rude a jail confined 

So soft and fair a thrall I 
And oft when moon on ocean slept 
That lovely lady sate and wept 

Upon the castle-wall, 
And turned her eye to southern climes, 
And thought perchance of happier times. 
And touched her lute by fits, and sung 
Wild ditties in her native tongue. 
And still, when on the cliff and bay 200 
Placid and pale the moonbeams play, 

And every breeze is mute. 
Upon the lone Hebridean's ear 
Steals a strange pleasure mixed with fear. 
While from that cliff he seems to hear 

The murmur of a lute 
And sounds as of a captive lone 
That mourns her woes in tongue un- 
known. — 
Strange is the tale — but all too long 
Already hath it staid the song — 210 

Yet who may pass them by, 
That crag and tower in ruins gray, 
Nor to their hapless tenant pay 

The tribute of a sigh ? 

IX 

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark 

O'er the broad ocean driven, 
Iler path by llonin's mountains dark 

The steersman's hand hath given. 
And llonin's mountains dark have sent 

Their hunters to the shore, 220 



And each his ashen bow unbent. 

And gave his pastime o'er. 
And at the Island Lord's command 
For hunting spear took warrior's brand. 
On Scooreigg next a warning light 
Summoned her warriors to the fight ; 
A numerous race ere stern MacLeod 
O'er their bleak shores in vengeance 

strode. 
When all in vain the ocean-cave 
Its refuge to his victims gave. 230 

The chief, relentless in his wrath. 
With blazing heath blockades the path; 
In dense and stifling volumes rolled. 
The vapor filled the caverned hold ! 
The warrior-threat, the infant's plain. 
The mother's screams, were heard in vain; 
The vengeful chief maintains his fires 
Till in the vault a tribe expires ! 
The bones which strew that cavern's gloom 
Too well attest their dismal doom. 240 



Merrily, merrily goes the bark 

On a breeze from the northward free. 
So shoots through the morning sky the lark, 

Or the swan through the summer sea. 
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, 
And Ulva dark and Colonsay, 
And all the group of islets gay 

That guard famed Staffa round. 
Then all unknown its columns rose 
Where dark and undisturbed repose 250 

The cormorant had found. 
And the shy seal had quiet home 
And weltered in that wondrous dome 
Where, as to shame the temples decked 
By skill of earthly architect. 
Nature herself, it seemed, would raise 
A minster to her Maker's praise ! 
Not for a meaner use ascend 
Her columns or her arches bend ; 
Nor of a theme less solemn tells 26c 

That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, 
And still, between each awful pause. 
From the high vault an answer draws 
In varied tone prolonged and high 
That mocks the organ's melody. 
Nor doth its entrance front in vain 
To old lona's holy fane, 
That Nature's voice might seem to say, 
* Well hast thou done, frail chikl of day ! 
Thy humble powers that stately shrine 270 
Tasked high and hard — but witness 
mine 1 ' 



338 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



XI 

Merrily, merrily goes the bark, 

Before the gale she bounds; 
So darts the dolphiu from the shark, 

Or the deer before the hounds. 
Thej left Loch-Tua on their lee, 
And the}' wakened the men of the wild 
Tiree, 

And the chief of the sandy Coll; 
They paused not at Columba's isle, 279 

Though pealed the bells from the holy 
pile, 

With long and measured toll; 
Xo time for matin or for mass, 
And the sounds of the holy summons pass 

Away in the billows' roll. 
Lochbuie's fierce and warlike lord 
Their signal saw and grasped his sword, 
And verdant Islay called her host, 
And the clans of Jura's rugged coast 

Lord Ronald's call obey. 
And Scarba's isle, whose tortured shore 290 
Still rings to Corrievreken's roar, 

And lonely Colonsay; — 
Scenes smig by him who sings no more ! 
His bright and brief career is o'er, 

And mute his tuneful strains; 
Quenched is his lamp of varied lore 
That loved the light of song to pour; 
A distant and a deadly shore 

Has Leyden's cold remains ! 

XII 

Ever the breeze blows merrily, 30c 

But the galley ploughs no more the sea. 
Lest, rounding wild Cantyre, they meet 
The southern foeman's watchful fleet, 

They held unwonted way; 
Up Tarbat's western lake they bore, 
Then dragged their bark the isthmus o'er, 
As far as Kilmaconnel's shore 

Upon the eastern bay. 
It was a wondrous sight to see 
Topmast and pennon glitter free, 310 

High raised above the greenwood tree, 
As on dry land the galley moves 
By cliff and copse and alder groves. 
Deep import from that selcouth sign 
Did many a mountain seer divine, 
For ancient legends told the Gael 
That when a royal bark should sail 

O'er Kilmaconnel moss 
Old Albyn should in fight prevail. 
And every foe should faint and quail 320 

Before her silver Cross. 



XIII 

Now launched once more, the inland sea 

They furrow with fair augury, 

And steer for Arran's isle; 
The sun, ere yet he sunk behind 
Ben-Ghoil, ' the Mountain of the Wind,' 
Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind, 

And bade Loch Ranza smile. 
Thither their destined course they drew; 
It seemed the isle her monarch knew, 330 
So brilliant was the landward view, 

The ocean so serene; 
Each puny wave in diamonds rolled 
O'er the calm deep where hues of gold 

With azure strove and green. 
The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower. 
Glowed with the tints of evening's hour, 

The beach was silver sheen. 
The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh. 
And oft renewed seemed oft to die, 340 

With breathless pause between. 
O, who with speech of war and woes 
Would wish to break the soft repose 

Of such enchanting scene ? 



XIV 

Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks ? 
The blush that dyes his manly cheeks, 
The timid look, and downcast eye. 
And faltering voice the theme deny. 

And good King Robert's brow expressed 
He pondered o'er some high request, 350 

As doubtful to approve; 
Yet in his eye and lip the while, 
Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile 
Which manhood's graver mood beguile 
When lovers talk of love. 
Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled; 

• And for my bride betrothed,' he said, 

* My liege has heard the rumor spread 
Of Edith from Ai'tornish fled. 

Too hard her fate — I claim no right 360 
To blame her for her hasty flight; 
Be joy and happiness her lot ! — 
But she hath fled the bridal-knot, 
And Lorn recalled his promised plight 
In the assembled chieftains' sight. — 
When, to fulfil our fathers' baud, 
I proffered all I could — my hand — 

I was repulsed with scorn; 
Mine honor I should ill assert. 
And worse the feelings of my heart, 370 
If I should play a suitor's part 
Again to pleasure Lorn.' 



CANTO FOURTH 



339 



XV 

* Young Lord,' the royal Bruce replied, 
*That question must the Church decide; 
Yet seems it hard, since rumors state 
Edith takes Clifford for her mate. 

The very tie which she hath broke 

To thee should still be binding yoke. 

But, for my sister Isabel — 

The mood of woman who can tell ? 380 

I guess the Champion of the Rock, 

Victorious in the tourney shock. 

That knight unknown to whom the prize 

She dealt, — had favor in her eyes ; 

But since our brother Nigel's fate. 

Our ruined house and hapless state. 

From worldly joy and hope estranged. 

Much is the hapless mourner changed. 

Perchance,' here smiled the noble King, 

* This tale may other musings bring. 390 
Soon shall we know - - yon mountains hide 
The little convent of Saint Bride ; 

There, sent by Edward, she must stay 
Till fate shall give more prosperous day; 
And thither will I bear thy suit, 
Nor will thine advocate be mute.' 

XVI 

As thus they talked in earnest mood, 
That speechless boy beside them stood. 
He stooped his head against the mast, 
And bitter sobs came thick and fast, 400 
A grief that would not be repressed 
But seemed to burst his youthful breast. 
His hands against his forehead held 
As if by force his tears repelled. 
But through his fingers long and slight 
Fast trilled the drops of crystal bright. 
Edward, who walked the deck apart. 
First spied this conflict of the heart. 
Thoughtless as brave, with bluntness kind 
He sought to cheer the sorrower's mind; 410 
By force the slender hand he drew 
From those poor eyes that streamed with 

dew. 
As in his hold the stripling strove — 
'T was a rough grasp, though meant in 

love — 
Away his tears the warrior swept. 
And bade shame on him that he wept. 

* I would to Heaven thy lielpless tongue 
Could tell me who hath wrought thee 

wrong ! 
For, were he of our crew the best. 
The insult went not unredressed. 420 

Come, cheer thee; thou art now of age 



To be a warrior's gallant page; 
Thou shalt be mine ! — a palfrey fair 
O'er hill and holt my boy shall bear, 
To hold my bow in hunting grove, 
Or speed on errand to my love; 
For well I wot thou wilt not tell 
The temple where my wishes dwell.' 

XVII 

Bruce interposed, * Gay Edward, no, 

This is no youth to hold thy bow, 430 

To fill thy goblet, or to bear 

Thy message light to lighter fair. 

Thou art a patron all too wild 

And thoughtless for this orphan child. 

See'st thou not how apart he steals. 

Keeps lonely couch, and lonely meals ? 

Fitter by far in yon calm cell 

To tend our sister Isabel, 

With father Augustine to share 

The peaceful change of convent prayer, 440 

Than wander wild adventures through 

With such a reckless guide as you.' — 

* Thanks, brother ! ' Edward answered 

gay, 

* For the high laud thy words convey ! 
But we may learn some future day. 

If thou or I can this poor boy 
Protect the best or best employ. 
Meanwhile, our vessel nears the strand; 
Launch we the boat and seek the land.' 

XVIII 

To land King Robert lightly sprung, 450 
And thrice aloud his bugle rung 
With note prolonged and varied strain 
Till bold Ben-Ghoil replied again. 
Good Douglas then and De la Haye 
Had in a glen a hart at bay. 
And Lennox cheered the laggard hounds. 
When waked that horn the greenwood 
bounds. 

* It is the foe ! ' cried Boyd, who came 
In breathless haste with eye of flame, — 

' It is the foe ! — Each valiant lord 46* 

Fling by his bow and grasp his sword ! ' 

* Not so,' replied the good Lord James, 

* That blast no English bugle claims. 
Oft have I heard it fire the fight, 
Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight. 
Ooad were my heart and deaf mine ear, 
I f Bruce should call nor Douglas hear ! 
Each to Loch Ranza's margin spring; 
That blast was winded by tbo king ! ' 



340 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



XIX 

Fast to their mates the tidings spread, 470 
And fast to shore the warriors sped. 
Bursting from glen and greenwood tree, 
High waked their loyal jubilee ! 
Around the royal Bruce they crowd, 
And clasped his hands, and wept aloud. 
Veterans of early fields were there. 
Whose helmets pressed their hoary hair. 
Whose swords and axes bore a stain 
From life-blood of the red-haired Dane; 
And boys whose hands scarce brooked to 

wield 480 

The heavy sword or bossy shield. 
Men too were there that bore the scars 
Impressed in Albyn's woful wars. 
At Falkirk's fierce and fatal fight, 
Teyndrum's dread rout, and Methven*s 

flight; 
The might of Douglas there was seen, 
There Lennox with his graceful mien; 
Kirkpatrick, Closeburn's dreaded Knight; 
The Lindsay, fiery, fierce, and light; 
The heir of murdered De la Haye, 490 

And Boyd the grave, and Seton gay. 
Around their king regained they pressed. 
Wept, shouted, clasped him to their breast. 
And young and old, and serf and lord, 
And he who ne'er unsheathed a sword. 
And he in many a peril tried, 
Alike resolved the brunt to bide, 
And live or die by Bruce's side ! 



XX 

O War ! thou hast thy fierce delight, 
Thy gleams of joy, intensely bright ! 500 
Such gleams as from thy polished shield 
Fly dazzling o'er the battle-field ! 
Such transports wake, severe and high, 
Amid the pealing conquest cry ; 
Scarce less, when after battle lost 
Muster the remnants of a host. 
And as each comrade's name they tell 
Who in the well-fought conflict fell, 
Knitting stern brow o'er flashing eye, 
Vow to avenge them or to die ! — 510 

Warriors ! — and where are warriors found, 
If not on martial Britain's ground ? 
And who, when waked with note of fire. 
Love more than they the British lyre ? — 
Know ye not, — hearts to honor dear ! 
That joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe. 
At which the heartstrings vibrate high, 
And wake the fountains of the eye ? 



And blame ye then the Bruce if trace 
Of tear is on his manly face 52c 

When, scanty relics of the train 
That hailed at Scone his early reign, 
This patriot band around him hung. 
And to his knees and bosom clung ? — 
Blame ye the Bruce ? — His brother 

blamed. 
But shared the weakness, while ashamed 
With haughty laugh his head he turned, 
And dashed away the tear he scorned. 

XXI 

'T is morning, and the convent bell 

Long time had ceased its matin knell 530 

Within thy walls. Saint Bride ! 
An aged sister sought the cell 
Assigned to Lady Isabel, 

And hurriedly she cried, 

* Haste, gentle Lady, haste ! — there waits 
A noble stranger at the gates; 

Saint Bride's poor votaress ne'er has seen 

A knight of such a princely mien; 

His errand, as he bade me tell, 

Is with the Lady Isabel.' 540 

The princess rose, — for on her knee 

Low bent she told her rosary, — 

* Let him by thee his purpose teach; 
I may not give a stranger speech.' — 

* Saint Bride forefend, thou royal maid ! ' 
The portress crossed herself and said, 

' Xot to be Prioress might I 
Debate his will, his suit deny.' — 

* Has earthly show then, simple fool, 
Power o'er a sister of thy rule ? 55c 
And art thou, like the worldly train. 
Subdued by splendors light and vain ? ' 

XXII 

* No, lady ! in old eyes like mine, 
Gauds have no glitter, gems no shine; 
Nor grace his rank attendants vain, 
One youthful page is all his train. 

It is the form, the eye, the word, 

The bearing of that stranger lord ; 

His stature, manly, bold, and tall, 

Built like a castle's battled wall, 56c 

Yet moulded in such just degrees, 

His giant-strength seems lightsome ease. 

Close as the tendrils of the vine 

His locks upon his forehead twine. 

Jet-black save where some touch of gray 

Has ta'en the youthful hue away. 

Weather and war their rougher trace 

Have left on that majestic face; — 



CANTO FOURTH 



341 



But 't is his dignity of eye ! 

There, if a suppliant, would I fly, 570 

Secure, mid danger, wrongs, and grief. 

Of sympathy, redress, relief — 

That glance, if guilty, would I dread 

More than the doom that spoke me dead ! ' 

* Enough, enough,' the Princess cried, 

* 'T is Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride ! 
To meaner front was ne'er assigned 
Such mastery o'er the common mind — 
Bestowed thy high designs to aid, 

How long, O Heaven ! how long de- 
layed ! — 580 
Haste, Mona, haste, to introduce 
My darling brother, royal Bruce ! ' 

XXIII 

They met like friends who part in pain, 
And meet in doubtful hope again. 
But when subdued that fitful swell. 
The Bruce surveyed the humble cell — 

* And this is thine, poor Isabel ! — 
That pallet-couch and naked wall. 
For room of state and bed of pall ; 

P'or costly robes and jewels rare, 590 

A string of beads and zone of hair; 
And for the trumpet's sprightly call 
To sport or banquet, grove or hall. 
The bell's grim voice divides thy care, 
'Twixt hours of penitence and prayer ! — 
O ill for thee, my royal claim 
From the First David's sainted name ! 
O woe for thee, that while he sought 
His right, thy brother feebly fought ! ' 

XXIV 

* Now lay these vain regrets aside, 600 
And be the unshaken Bruce ! ' she cried ; 

* For more I glory to have shared 
The woes thy venturous spirit dared. 
When raising first thy valiant band 
In rescue of thy native land, 

Than had fair Fortune set me down 

The partner of an empire's crown. 

And grieve not that on pleasure's stream 

No more I drive in giddy dream. 

For Heaven the erring pilot knew, 610 

And from the gulf the vessel drew, 

Tried me with judgments stern and great, 

My house's ruin, thy defeat, 

Poor Nigel's death, till tamed I own 

My hopes are fixed on Heaven alone; 

Nor e'er shall earthly prospects win 

My heart to this vain world of sin.' 



XXV 

* Nay, Isabel, for such stern choice 
First wilt thou wait thy brother's voice; 
Then ponder if in convent scene 620 
No softer thoughts might intervene — 
Say they were of that unknown knight, 
Victor in Woodstock's tourney-fight — 
Nay, if his name such blush you owe. 
Victorious o'er a fairer foe ! ' 

Truly his penetrating eye 
Hath caught that blush's passing dye, — 
Like the last beam of evening thrown 
On a white cloud, — just seen and gone. 
Soon with calm cheek and steady eye 630 
The princess made composed reply: 

* I guess my brother's meaning well; 
For not so silent is the cell 

But we have heard the islemen all 

Arm in thy cause at Ronald's call, 

And mine eye proves that knight unknown 

And the brave Island Lord are one. 

Had then his suit been earlier made. 

In his own name with thee to aid — 

But that his plighted faith forbade — 640 

I know not — But thy page so near ? — 

This is no tale for menial's ear.' 



XXVI 

Still stood that page, as far apart 

As the small cell would space afford; 
With dizzy eye and bursting heart 

He leant his weight on Bruce's sword, 
The monarch's mantle too he bore. 
And drew the fold his visage o'er. 
* Fear not for him — in murderous strife,' 
Said Bruce, * his warning saved my life ; 650 
Full seldom parts he from my side, 
And in his silence I confide, 
Since he can tell no tale again. 
He is a boy of gentle strain, 
And I have purposed he shall dwell 
In Augustine the chaplain's cell 
And wait on thee, my Isabel. — 
Mind not his tears; I 've seen them flow, 
As in the thaw dissolves the snow. 
'T is a kind youth, but fanciful, 66c 

Unfit against the tide to pull. 
And those that with the Bruce would 

sail 
Must learn to strive with stream and 

gale. 
But forward, gentle Isabel — 
My answer for Lord Ronald tell,' 



342 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



XXVII 

* This answer be to Ronald given — 
The heart he asks is fixed on heaven. 
My love was like a summer flower 
That withered in the wintry hour, 

Born but of vanity and pride, 67c 

And with these sunny visions died. 

If further press his suit — then say 

He should his plighted troth obey, 

Troth plighted both with ring and word, 

And sworn on crucifix and sword. — 

O, shame thee, Robert ! I have seen 

Thou hast a woman's guardian been ! 

Even in extremity's dread hour. 

When pressed on thee the Southern power, 

And safety, to all human sight, 680 

Was only found in rapid flight. 

Thou heard'st a wretched female plain 

In agony of travail-pain. 

And thou didst bid thy little band 

Upon the instant turn and stand. 

And dare the worst the foe might do 

Rather than, like a knight untrue, 

Leave to pursuers merciless 

A woman in her last distress. 

And wilt thou now deny thine aid 690 

To an oppressed and injured maid, 

Even plead for Ronald's perfidy 

And press his fickle faith on me ? — 

So witness Heaven, as true I vow, 

Had I those earthly feelings now 

Which could my former bosom move 

Ere taught to set its hopes above, 

I 'd spurn each proffer he could bring 

Till at my feet he laid the ring, 

The ring and spousal contract both, 700 

And fair acquittal of his oath. 

By her who brooks his perjured scorn, 

The ill-requited Maid of Lorn ! ' 

XXVIII 

With sudden impulse forward sprung 
The page and on her neck he hung; 
Then, recollected instantly. 
His head he stooped and bent his knee. 
Kissed twice the hand of Isabel, 
Arose, and sudden left the cell. — 
The princess, loosened from his hold, 710 
Blushed angry at his bearing bold; 
But good King Robert cried, 

* Chafe not — by signs he speaks his mind, 
He heard the plan my care designed, 

Nor could his transports hide. — 
But, sister, now bethink thee well; 
No easy choice the convent cell; 



720 



Trust, I shall play no tyrant part, 
Either to force thy hand or heart. 
Or suffer that Lord Ronald scorn 
Or wrong for thee the Maid of Lorn. 
But think, — not long the time has been. 
That thou wert wont to sigh unseen, 
And wouldst the ditties best approve 
That told some lay of hapless love. 
Now are thy wishes in thy power. 
And thou art bent on cloister bower ! 
O, if our Edward knew the change. 
How would his busy satire range. 
With many a sarcasm varied still 730 

On woman's wish and woman's will ! * — 

XXIX 

* Brother, I well believe,' she said, 

* Even so would Edward's part be played. 
Kindly in heart, in word severe, 

A foe to thought and grief and fear, 
He holds his humor uncontrolled; 
But thou art of another mould. 
Say then to Ronald, as I say. 
Unless before my feet he lay 
The ring which bound the faith he 
swore, 740 

By Edith freely yielded o'er. 
He moves his suit to me no more. 
Nor do I promise, even if now 
He stood absolved of spousal vow. 
That I would change my purpose made 
To shelter me in holy shade. — 
Brother, for little space, farewell ! 
To other duties warns the bell.' 

XXX 

* Lost to the world,' King Robert said, 
When he had left the royal maid, 750 

* Lost to the world by lot severe, 
O, what a gem lies buried here. 
Nipped by misfortune's cruel frost. 
The buds of fair affection lost ! — 
But what have I with love to do ? 
Far sterner cares my lot pursue. 
Pent in this isle we may not lie, 
Nor would it long our wants supply. 
Right opposite, the mainland towers 759 
Of my own Turnberry court our powers — 
Might not my father's beadsman hoar, 
Cutbbert, who dwells upon the shore. 
Kindle a signal-flame to show 

The time propitious for the blow ? 

It shall be so — some friend shall bear 

Our mandate with despatch and care; 



CANTO FIFTH 



343 



Edward shall find the messenger. 

That fortress ours, the island fleet 

May on the coast of Carrick meet. — 

O Scotland ! shall it e'er be mine 770 

To wreak thy wrongs in battle-line, 

To raise my victor-head, and see 

Thy hills, thy dales, thy people free, — 

That glance of bliss is all I crave 

Betwixt my labors and my grave ! ' 

Then down the hill he slowly went. 

Oft pausing on the steep descent. 

And reached the spot where his bold 

train 
Held rustic camp upon the plain. 



CANTO FIFTH 



On fair Loch-Ranza streamed the early 
day, 

Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are up- 
ward curled 

From the lone hamlet which her inland 
bay 

And circling mountains sever from the 
world. 

And there the fisherman his sail un- 
furled. 

The goat-herd drove his kids to steep 
Ben-Ghoil, 

Before the hut the dame her spindle 
twirled. 

Courting the sunbeam as she plied her 
toil, — 
For, wake where'er he may, man wakes to 
care and coil. 

But other duties called each convent 
maid, 10 

Roused by the summons of the moss- 
grown bell; 

Sung were the matins and the mass was 
said. 

And every sister sought her separate 
cell, 

Such was the rule, her rosary to tell. 

And Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer; 

The sunbeam throucrh the narrow lattice 
fell ^ 

Upon the snowy neck and long dark 
hair. 
As stooped her gentle head in wi^ek de- 
votion there. 



II 
She raised her eyes, that duty done, 
When glanced upon the pavement-stone, so 
Gemmed and enchased, a golden ring. 
Bound to a scroll with silken string, 
With few brief words inscribed to tell, 

* This for the Lady Isabel.' 
Within the writing farther bore, 

* 'T was with this ring his plight he swore. 
With this his promise I restore; 

To her who can the heart command 
Well may I yield the plighted hand. 
And O, for better fortune born, 30 

Grudge not a passing sigh to mourn 
Her who was Edith once of Lorn ! ' 
One single flash of glad surprise 
Just glanced from Isabel's dark eyes. 
But vanished in the blush of shame 
That as its penance instant came. 

* O thought unworthy of my race ! 
Selfish, ungenerous, mean, and base, 
A moment's throb of joy to own 

That rose upon her hopes o'erthrowii ! — 4c 
Thou pledge of vows too well believed. 
Of man ingrate and maid deceived. 
Think not thy lustre here shall gain 
Another heart to hope in vain ! 
For thou shalt rest, thou tempting gaud, 
Where worldly thoughts are overawed, 
And worldly splendors sink debased.' 
Then by the cross the ring she placed. 



Ill 

Next rose the thought, — its owner far. 
How came it here through bolt and 
bar ? — 50 

But the dim lattice is ajar. 
She looks abroad, — the morning dew 
A light short step had brushed anew, 

And there were footprints seen 
On the carved buttress rising still. 
Till on the mossy window-sill 

Their track effaced the green. 
The ivy twigs were torn and frayed. 
As if some climber's steps to aid. — 
But who the hardy messenger 60 

Whose venturous path these signs in- 
fer ? — 

* Strange doubts are mine ! — Mona, draw 

nigh; — 
Nought 'scapes old Mona's curious eye — 
What strangers, gentle mother, say. 
Have sought these holy walls to-day V 

* None, lady, none of note or name; 



344 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



Oulj your brother's foot-page came 
At peep of dawn — I prayed him pass 
To chapel where they said the mass; 
But like an arrow he shot by, 70 

And tears seemed bursting from his eye.' 

IV 

The truth at once on Isabel 
As darted by a sunbeam fell; 

* 'T is Edith's self ! — her speechless woe, 
Her form, her looks, the secret show ! — 
Instant, good Mona, to the bay, 

And to my royal brother say, 

I do conjure him seek my cell 

With that mute page he loves so well.' 79 

* What ! know'st thou not his warlike host 
At break of day has left our coast ? 

My old eyes saw them from the tower. 
At eve they couched in greenwood bower. 
At dawn a bugle signal made 
By their bold lord their ranks arrayed; 
Up sprung the spears through bush and 

tree. 
No time for benedicite ! 
Like deer that, rousing from their lair, 
Just shake the dew-drops from their hair 
And toss their armed crest aloft, 90 

Such matins theirs ! ' — * Good mother, 

soft — 
Where does my brother bend his way ? ' — 

* As I have heard, for Brodick Bay, 
Across the isle — of barks a score 
Lie there, 't is said, to waft them o'er. 
On sudden news, to Carrick shore.' — 

* If such their purpose, deep the need,* 
Said anxious Isabel, * of speed ! 

Call Father Augustine, good dame.' — 
The nun obeyed, the father came. 100 

* Kind father, hie without delay 

Across the hills to Brodick Bay. 

This message to the Bruce be given; 

I pray him, by his hopes of Heaven, 

That till he speak with me he stay ! 

Or, if his haste brook no delay, 

That he deliver on my suit 

Into thy charge that stripling mute. 

Thus prays his sister Isabel 

For causes more than she may tell — no 

Away, good father ! and take heed 

That life and death are on thy speed.' 

His cowl the good old priest did on, 

Took his piked staff and sandalled shoon, 

And, like a palmer bent by eld. 

O'er jnpss anij jnoor his journey held. 



VI 

Heavy and dull the foot of age, 

And rugged was the pilgrimage; 

But none were there beside whose care 

Might such important message bear. 120 

Through birchen copse he wandered slow, 

Stunted and sapless, thin and low; 

By many a mountain stream he passed. 

From the tall cliffs in tumult cast. 

Dashing to foam their waters dun 

And sparkling in the summer sun. 

Round his gray head the wild curlew 

In many a fearless circle flew. 

O'er chasms he passed where fractures 

wide 
Craved wary eye and ample stride; 130 

He crossed his brow beside the stone 
Where Druids erst heard victims groan, 
And at the cairns upon the wild 
O'er many a heathen hero piled, 
He breathed a timid prayer for those 
Who died ere Shiloh's sun arose. 
Beside Macfarlane's Cross he staid. 
There told his hours within the shade 
And at the stream his thirst allayed. 
Thence onward journeying slowly still, 14c 
As evening closed he reached the hill 
Where, rising through the woodland green. 
Old Brodick's Gothic towers were seen. 
From Hastings late, their English lord, 
Douglas had won them by the sword. 
The sun that sunk behind the isle 
Now tinged them with a parting smile. 

VII 

But though the beams of light decay 
'T was bustle all in Brodick Bay. 
The Bruce's followers crowd the shore, 150 
And boats and barges some unmoor, 
Some raise the sail, some seize the oar; 
Their eyes oft turned where glimmered 

far 
What might have seemed an early star 
On heaven's blue arch save that its light 
Was all too flickering, fierce, and bright. 

Far distant in the south the ray 

Shone pale amid retiring day. 
But as, on Carrick shore. 

Dim seen in outline faintly blue, r6< 

The shades of evening closer drew, 
It kindled more and more. 
The monk's slow steps now press the sand' 
And now amid a scene he stands 

Full strange to churchman's eye; 
Warriors, who, arming for the fight, 



CANTO FIFTH 



345 



Rivet and clasp their harness light, 
And twinkling spears, and axes bright, 

And helmets flashing high. 
Oft too with unaccustomed ears 170 

A language much unmeet he hears, 

While, hastening all on board. 
As stormy as the swelling surge 
That mixed its roar, the leaders urge 
Their followers to the ocean verge 

With many a haughty word. 

VIII 

Through that wild throng the father 

passed. 
And reached the royal Bruce at last. 
He leant against a stranded boat 
That the approaching tide must float, 180 
And counted every rippling wave 
As higher yet her sides they lave. 
And oft the distant fire he eyed. 
And closer yet his hauberk tied. 
And loosened in its sheath his brand. 
Edward and Lennox were at hand, 
Douglas and Ronald had the care 
The soldiers to the barks to share. — 
The monk approached and homage paid; 

* And art thou come,' King Robert said, 190 

* So far to bless us ere we part ? ' — 

* My liege, and with a loyal heart ! — 
But other charge I have to tell,' — 
And spoke the best of Isabel. 

* Now by Saint Giles,' the monarch cried, 

< This moves me much ! — this morning 

tide 
I sent the stripling to Saint Bride 
With my commandment there to bide.' 

* Thither he came the portress showed, 199 
But there, my liege, made brief abode.' — 

IX 

*'Twas I,' said Edward, * found employ 

Of nobler import for the boy. 

Deep pondering in my anxious mind, 

A fitting messenger to find 

To bear thy written mandate o'er 

To Cuthbert on the Carrick shore, 

I chanced at early dawn to pass 

The chapel gate to snatch a mass. 

I found the stripling on a tomb 

Low-seated, weeping for the doom 210 

That gave his youth to convent gloom. 

told my purpose and his eyes 
x'lashed joyful at the glad surprise. 
i^Ie bounded to the skiff, the sail 

V^as spread before a prosperous gale, 



And well my charge he hath obeyed; 
For see ! the ruddy signal made 
That Clifford with his merry-men all 
Guards carelessly our father's hall.' 



219 



* O wild of thought and hard of heart ! * 
Answered the monarch, * on a part 

Of such deep danger to employ 
A mute, an orphan, and a boy ! 
Unfit for flight, unfit for strife. 
Without a tongue to plead for life ! 
Now, were my right restored by Heaven, 
Edward, my crown I would have given 
Ere, thrust on such adventure wild, 
I perilled thus the helpless child.' 
Offended half and half submiss, — 230 

* Brother and liege, of blame like this,' 
Edward replied, * I little dreamed. 

A stranger messenger, I deemed. 
Might safest seek the beadsman's cell 
Where all thy squires are known so well. 
Noteless his presence, sharp his sense, 
His imperfection his defence. 
If seen, none can his errand guess; 
If ta'en, his words no tale express — 
Methinks, too, yonder beacon's shine 240 
Might expiate greater fault than mine.' 

* Rash,' said King Robert, * was the deed — 
But it is done. Embark with speed ! — 
Good father, say to Isabel 

How this unhappy chance befell; 
If well we thrive on yonder shore. 
Soon shall my care her page restore. 
Our greeting to our sister bear. 
And think of us in mass and prayer.' 

XI 

* Ay ! ' said the priest, ' while this poor 

hand 250 

Can chalice raise or cross command. 
While my old voice has accents' use. 
Can Augustine forget the Bruce ! ' 
Then to his side Lord Ronald pressed. 
And whispered, * Bear thou this request, 
That when by Bruce's side I fight 
For Scotland's crown and freedom's right. 
The princess grace her knight to bear 
Some token of her favoring care; 
It shall be shown where Enghuurs best 2(^3 
May shrink to see it on my crest. 
And for the boy — since weightier caro 
For royal Bruce the times prepare, 
The helpless youth is Ronald's charge. 
His couch my plaid, his fence my targe.* 



346 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



He ceased; for many an eager hand 
Had urged the barges from the strand. 
Their number was a score and ten, 
They bore thrice threescore chosen men. 
With such small force did Bruce at last 270 
The die for death or empire cast ! 

XII 

Now on the darkening main afloat, 
Ready and manned rocks every boat; 
Beneath their oars the ocean's might 
Was dashed to sparks of glimmering light. 
Faint and more faint, as off they bore, 
Their armor glanced against the shore. 
And, mingled with the dashing tide. 
Their murmuring voices distant died. — 

* God speed them ! ' said the priest, as dark 
On distant billows glides each bark; 281 

* O Heaven ! when swords for freedom 

shine 
And monarch's right, the cause is thine ! 
Edge doubly every patriot blow ! 
Beat down the banners of the foe ! 
And be it to the nations known. 
That victory is from God alone ! ' 
As up the hill his path he drew. 
He turned his blessings to renew. 
Oft turned till on the darkened coast 290 
All traces of their course were lost; 
Then slowly bent to Brodick tower 
To shelter for the evening hour. 

XIII 

In night the fairy prospects sink 
Where Cumray's isles with verdant link 
Close the fair entrance of the Clyde ; 
The woods of Bute, no more descried, 
Are gone — and on the placid sea 
The rowers ply their task with glee, 
While hands that knightly lances bore 300 
Impatient aid the laboring oar. 
The half-faced moon shone dim and pale, 
And glanced against the whitened sail; 
But on that ruddy beacon-light 
Each steersman kept the helm aright. 
And oft, for such the king's command. 
That all at once might reach the strand, 
From boat to boat loud shout and hail 
Warned them to crowd or slacken sail. 
South and by west the armada bore, 310 
And near at length the Carrick shore. 
As less and less the distance grows, 
High and more high the beacon rose; 
The light that seemed a twinkling star 
Now blazed portentous, fierce, and far. 



Dark-red the heaven above it glowed, 

Dark-red the sea beneath it flowed, 

Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim, 

In blood-red light her islets swim; 

Wild scream the dazzled sea-fowl gave, 320 

Dropped from their crags on plashing wave. 

The deer to distant covert drew. 

The black-cock deemed it day and crew. 

Like some tall castle given to flame. 

O'er half the land the lustre came. 

* Now, good my liege and brother sage. 
What think ye of mine elfin page ? ' — 

* Row on ! * the noble king replied, 

* We '11 learn the truth whate'er betide; 
Yet sure the beadsman and the child 330 
Could ne'er have waked that beacon wild.* 

XIV 

With that the boats approached the land. 
But Edward's grounded on the sand; 
The eager knight leaped in the sea 
Waist-deep and first on shore was he. 
Though every barge's hardy band 
Contended which should gain the land. 
When that strange light, which seen afar 
Seemed steady as the polar star. 
Now, like a prophet's fiery chair, 340 

Seemed travelling the realms of air. 
Wide o'er the sky the splendor glows 
As that portentous meteor rose; 
Helm, axe, and falchion glittered bright. 
And in the red and dusky light 
His comrade's face each warrior saw, 
Nor marvelled it was pale with awe. 
Then high in air the beams were lost. 
And darkness sunk upon the coast. — 
Ronald to Heaven a prayer addressed, 350 
And Douglas crossed his dauntless breast; 

* Saint James protect us ! ' Lennox cried. 
But reckless Edward spoke aside, 

* Deem'st thou, Kirkpatrick, in that flame 
Red Comyn's angry spirit came. 

Or would thy dauntless heart endure 
Once more to make assurance sure ? * 
*Hush!' said the Bruce; *we soon shall 

know 
If this be sorcerer's empty show 
Or stratagem of southern foe. s6« 

The moon shines out — upon the sand 
Let every leader rank his band.' 

XV 

Faintly the moon's pale beams supply 
That ruddy light's unnatural dye; 
The dubious cold reflection lay 



CANTO FIFTH 



347 



On the wet sands and quiet bay. 

Beneath the rocks King Robert drew 

His scattered files to order due, 

Till shield compact and serried spear 

In the cool light shone blue and clear. 370 

Then down a path that sought the tide 

That speechless page was seen to glide ; 

He knelt him lowly on the sand, 

And gave a scroll to Robert's hand. 

* A torch,' the monarch cried, ^ What, ho ! 

Now shall we Cuthbert's tidings know.' 

But evil news the letters bear. 

The Clifford's force was strong and ware, 

Augmented too, that very morn, 

By mountaineers who came with Lorn. 380 

Long harrowed by oppressor's hand. 

Courage and faith had fled the land, 

And over Carrick, dark and deep, 

Had sunk dejection's iron sleep. — 

Cuthbert had seen that beacon flame, 

Unwitting from what source it came. 

Doubtful of perilous event, 

Edward's mute messenger he sent. 

If Bruce deceived should venture o'er, 

To warn him from the fatal shore. 



390 



XVI 



As round the torch the leaders crowd, 
Bruce read these chilling news aloud. 
* What council, nobles, have we now ? — 
To ambush us in greenwood bough, 
And take the chance which fate may send 
To bring our enterprise to end ? 
Or shall we turn us to the main 
As exiles, and embark again ? ' 
Answered fierce Edward, * Hap what may. 
In Carrick Carrick's lord must stay. 400 
I would not minstrels told the tale 
Wildfire or meteor made us quail.' 
Answered the Douglas, * If my liege 
May win yon walls by storm or siege. 
Then were each brave and patriot heart 
Kindled of new for loyal part.' 
Answered Lord Ronald, * Not for shame 
Would I that aged Torquil came 
And found, for all our empty boast, 
Without a blow we fled the coast. 410 

1 will not credit tliat this land, 
So famed for warlike heart and hand, 
The nurse of Wallace and of Bruce, 
Will long with tyrants hold a truce.' 
'Prove we our fate : the brunt we'll bide !' 
5o Boyd and Haye and Lennox cried; 
So said, so vowed the leaders all; 
3o Bruce resolved: * And in my hall 



Since the bold Southern make their home, 
The hour of payment soon shall come, 420 
When with a rough and rugged host 
Clifford may reckon to his cost. 
Meantime, through well-known bosk and 

dell 
I '11 lead where we may shelter well.' 

XVII 

Now ask you whence that wondrous light. 
Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight ? — 
It ne'er was known — yet gray-haired eld 
A superstitious credence held 
That never did a mortal hand 
Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand; 430 
Nay, and that on the selfsame night 
When Bruce crossed o'er still gleams the 

light. 
Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor 
And glittering wave and crimsoned shore — 
But whether beam celestial, lent 
By Heaven to aid the king's descent, 
Or fire hell-kindled from beneath 
To lure him to defeat and death, 
Or were it but some meteor strange 
Of such as oft through midnight range, 440 
Startling the traveller late and lone, 
I know not — and it ne'er was known. 

XVIII 

Now up the rocky pass they drew. 
And Ronald, to his promise true, 
Still made his arm the stripling's stay. 
To aid him on the rugged way. 

* Now cheer thee, simple Amadine ! 
Why throbs that silly heart of thine ? ' — 
That name the pirates to their slave — 

In Gaelic 't is the Changeling — gave — 450 

* Dost thou not rest thee on my arm ? 
Do not my plaid-folds hold thee warm ? 
Hath not the wild bull's treble hide 
This targe for thee and me supplied ? 
Is not Clan-CoUa's sword of steel ? 
And, trembler, canst thou terror feel ? 
Cheer thee, and still that throbbing heart; 
From Ronald's guard thou shalt not 

part.' — 
O ! many a shaft at random sent 
Finds mark the archer little meant ! 460 
And many a word at random spoken 
May soothe or wound a heart that '? 

broken ! 
Half soothed, half grieved, half terrified, 
Close drew the page to Ronald's side; 
A wild delirious thrill of joy 



348 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



Was in that hour of agony, 

As up the steepy pass he strove, 

Fear, toil, and sorrow, lost in love ! 

XIX 

The barrier of that iron shore. 
The rock's steep ledge, is now climbed 
o'er; 470 

And from the castle's distant wall. 
From tower to tower the warders call: 
The sound swings over land and sea. 
And marks a watchful enemy. — 
They gained the Chase, a wide domain 
Left for the castle's sylvan reign — 
Seek not the scene; the axe, the plough, 
The boor's dull fence, have marred it now. 
But then soft swept in velvet green 
The plain with many a glade between, 480 
Whose tangled alleys far invade 
The depth of the brown forest shade. 
Here the tall fern obscured the lawn, 
Fair shelter for the sportive fawn; 
There, tufted close with copsewood green. 
Was many a swelling hillock seen; 
And all around was verdure meet 
For pressure of the fairies' feet. 
The glossy holly loved the park, 
The yew-tree lent its shadow dark, 490 

And many an old oak, worn and bare, 
With all its shivered boughs was there. 
Lovely between, the moonbeams fell 
On lawn and hillock, glade and dell. 
The gallant monarch sighed to see 
These glades so loved in childhood free, 
Bethinking that as outlaw now 
He ranged beneath the forest bough. 

XX 

Fast o'er the moonlight Chase they sped. 
Well knew the band that measured 

tread 
When, in retreat or in advance. 
The serried warriors move at once; 
And evil were the luck if dawn 
Descried them on the open lawn. 
Copses they traverse, brooks they cross, 
Strain up the bank and o'er the moss. 
From the exhausted page's brow 
Cold drops of toil are streaming now; 
With effort faint and lengthened pause, 
His weary step the stripling draws. 510 

* Nay, droop not yet ! ' the warrior said ; 

* Come, let me give thee ease and aid ! 
Strong are mine arms, and little care 
A weight so slight as thine to bear. — 



500 



What ! wilt thou not ? — capricious boy ! — 
Then thine own limbs and strength employ. 
Pass but this night and pass thy care, 
I '11 place thee with a lady fair, 
Where thou shalt tune thy lute to tell 
How Konald loves fair Isabel ! ' 520 

Worn out, disheartened, and dismayed, 
Here Amadine let go the plaid; 
His trembling limbs their aid refuse. 
He sunk among the midnight dews ! 

XXI 

What may be done ? — the night is gone — 
The Bruce's band moves swiftly on — 
Eternal shame if at the brunt 
Lord Ronald grace not battle's front ! — 

* See yonder oak within whose trunk 
Decay a darkened cell hath sunk ; 530 
Enter and rest thee there a space. 

Wrap in my plaid thy limbs, thy face. 

I will not be, believe me, far, 

But must not quit the ranks of war. 

Well will I mark the bosky bourne. 

And soon, to guard thee hence, return. — 

Nay, weep not so, thou simple boy ! 

But sleep in peace and wake in joy.' 

In sylvan lodging close bestowed, 

He placed the page and onward strode 540 

With strength put forth o'er moss and 

brook. 
And soon the marching band o'ertook. 

XXII 

Thus strangely left, long sobbed and wept 

The page till wearied out he slept — 

A rough voice waked his dream — * Nay, 

here, 
Here by this thicket passed the deer — 
Beneath that oak old Ryno staid — 
What have we here ? — A Scottish plaid 
And in its folds a stripling laid ? — 
Come forth ! thy name and business 

tell ! 550 

What, silent ? — then I guess thee well. 
The spy that sought old Cuthbert's cell. 
Wafted from Arran y ester morn — 
Come, comrades, we will straight return. 
Our lord may choose the rack should teach 
To this young lurcher use of speech. 
Thy bow-string, till I bind him fast.' — 

* Nay, but he weeps and stands aghast; 
Unbound we '11 lead him, fear it not; 
'T is a fair stripling, though a Scot.' 560 
The hunters to the castle sped. 
And there the hapless captive led. 



CANTO FIFTH 



349 



XXIII 
' Stout Clifford in the castle-court 
Prepared him for the morning sport; 
And now with Lorn held deep discourse, 
Now gave command for hound and horse. 
^War-steeds and palfreys pawed the ground, 
And many a deer-dog howled around. 
To Amadine Lorn's well-known word 
Replying to that Southern lord, 570 

Mixed with this clanging din, might seem 
The phantasm of a fevered dream. 
The tone upon his ringing ears 
Came like the sounds which fancy hears 
When in rude waves or roaring winds 
Some words of woe the muser finds, 
Until more loudly and more near 

Their speech arrests the page's ear. 

( 

XXIV 

* And was she thus,' said Clifford, 'lost ? 
The priest should rue it to his cost ! 580 
What says the monk ? ' — * The holy sire 
Owns that in masquer's quaint attire 

She sought his skiff disguised, unknown 

To all except to him alone. 

But, says the priest, a bark from Lorn 
c Laid them aboard that very morn, 
j And pirates seized her for their prey. 

He proffered ransom gold to pay 

And they agreed — but ere told o'er. 

The winds blow loud, the billows roar; 590 

They severed and they met no more. 

He deems — such tempests vexed the 
coast — 

Ship, crew, and fugitive were lost. 

So let it be, with the disgrace 

And scandal of her lofty race ! 

Thrice better she had ne'er been born 

Than brought her infamy on Lorn ! ' 

XXV 

Lord Clifford now the captive spied; — 
< Whom, Herbert, hast thou there ? ' he 
cried. 

* A spy we seized within the Chase, 6cx> 
A hollow oak his lurking-place.' — 

* What tidings can the youth afford ? ' — 

* He plays the mute.' — * Then noose a 

cord — 
Unless brave Lorn reverse the doom 
For his plaid's sake.' — * Clan - Colla's 

loom,* 
Said Lorn, whose careless glances trace 
Rather the vesture than the face, 



* Clan-Colla's dames such tartans twine; 
Wearer nor plaid claims care of mine. 
Give him, if my advice you crave, 6ia 
His own scathed oak; and let him wave 
In air unless, by terror wrung, 

A frank confession find his tongue. — 
Nor shall he die without his rite; 
Thou, Angus Roy, attend the sight. 
And give Clan-Col la's dirge thy breath 
As they convey him to his death.' — 

* O brother ! cruel to the last ! ' 
Through the poor captive's bosom passed 
The thought, but, to his purpose true, 620 
He said not, though he sighed, ' Adieu ! ' 

XXVI 

And will he keep his purpose still 

In sight of that last closing ill, 

When one poor breath, one single word, 

May freedom, safety, life, afford ? 

Can he resist the instinctive call 

For life that bids us barter all ? — 

Love, strong as death, his heart hath 

steeled. 
His nerves hath strung — he will not 

yield ! 
Since that poor breath, that little word, 630 
May yield Lord Ronald to the sword. — 
Clan-Colla's dirge is pealing wide. 
The griesly headsman 's by his side ; 
Along the greenwood Chase they bend. 
And now their march has ghastly end ! 
That old and shattered oak beneath, 
They destine for the place of death. 
What thoughts are his, while all in vain 
His eye for aid explores the plain ? 
What thoughts, while with a dizzy ear 640 
He hears the death-prayer muttered near ? 
And must he die such death accurst, 
Or will that bosom-secret burst ? 
Cold on his brow breaks terror's dew, 
His trembling lips are livid blue; 
The agony of parting life 
Has nought to match that moment's strife ! 

XXVII 

But other witnesses are nigh, 

Who mock at fear, and death defy f 

Soon as the dire lament was played 650 

It waked the lurking ambuscade. 

The Island Lord looked forth and spied 

Tlie cause, and loud in fury cried, 

* By Heaven, they lead the page to die, 
And mock nie in his agony ! 

They shall aby it ! ' — On his arm 



3SO 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



Bruce laid strong grasp, * They shall not 

harm 
A ringlet of the stripling's hair; 
But till I give the word forbear. — 
Douglas, lead fifty of our force 660 

Up yonder hollow water-course, 
And couch thee midway on the wold, 
Between the flyers and their hold: 
A spear above the copse displayed. 
Be signal of the ambush made. — 
Edward, with forty spearmen straight 
Through yonder copse approach the gate, 
And w^hen thou hear'st the battle-din 
Rush forward and the passage win, 
Secure the drawbridge, storm the port, 670 
And man and guard the castle-court. — 
The rest move slowly forth with me, 
In shelter of the forest-tree. 
Till Douglas at his post I see.' 

XXVIII 

Like war-horse eager to rush on, 
Compelled to wait the signal blown. 
Hid, and scarce hid, by greenwood bough. 
Trembling with rage stands Ronald now. 
And in his grasp his sword gleams blue. 
Soon to be dyed with deadlier hue. — 680 
Meanwhile the Bruce with steady eye 
Sees the dark death-train moving by. 
And heedful measures oft the space 
The Douglas and his band must trace. 
Ere they can reach their destined ground. 
Now sinks the dirge's wailing sound. 
Now cluster round the direful tree 
That slow and solemn company. 
While hymn mistuned and muttered 

prayer 
The victim for his fate prepare. — 690 

What glances o'er the greenwood shade ? 
The spear that marks the ambuscade ! — 

* Now, noble chief ! I leave thee loose; 
Upon them, Ronald ! ' said the Bruce. 

XXIX 

* The Bruce ! the Bruce ! ' to well-known 

cry 
His native rocks and woods reply. 

* The Bruce ! the Bruce ! ' in that dread 

word 
The knell of hundred deaths was heard. 
The astonished Southern gazed at first 
Where the wild tempest was to burst 700 
That waked in that presaging name. 
Before, behind, around it came ! 
Half-armed, surprised, on every side 



Hemmed in, hewed down, they Wed and 

died. 
Deep in the ring the Bruce engaged. 
And fierce Clan-CoUa's broadsword raged ! 
Full soon the few who fought were sped. 
Nor better was their lot who fled 
And met mid terror's wild career 
The Douglas's redoubted spear ! 710 

Two hundred yeomen on that morn 
The castle left, and none return. 

XXX 

Not on their flight pressed Ronald's brand, 

A gentler duty claimed his hand. 

He raised the page where on the plain 

His fear had sunk him with the slain: 

And twice that morn surprise well near 

Betrayed the secret kept by fear; 

Once when with life returning came 

To the boy's lip Lord Ronald's name, 720 

And hardly recollection drowned 

The accents in a murmuring sound ; 

And once when scarce he could resist 

The chieftain's care to loose the vest 

Drawn tightly o'er his laboring breast. 

But then the Bruce's bugle blew, 

For martial work was yet to do. 

XXXI 

A harder task fierce Edward waits. 
Ere signal given the castle gates 

His fury had assailed ; 730 

Such was his wonted reckless mood, 
Yet desperate valor oft made good. 
Even by its daring, venture rude 

Where prudence might have failed. 
Upon the bridge his strength he threw, 
And struck the iron chain in two. 

By which its planks arose ; 
The warder next his axe's edge 
Struck down upon the threshold ledge, 
'Twixt door and post a ghastly wedge ! 740 

The gate they may not close. 
Well fought the Southern in the fray, 
Clifford and Lorn fought well that day, 
But stubborn Edward forced his way ■ 

Against a hundred foes. I 

Loud came the cry, * The Bruce ! the-* 

Bruce ! ' 
No hope or in defence or truce, — 

Fresh combatants pour in; 
Mad with success and drunk with gore. 
They drive the struggling foe before 750 

And ward on ward they win. 
Unsparing was the vengeful sword^ 



I 



CANTO SIXTH 



351 



And limbs were lopped and life-blood 

poured, 
The cry of death and conflict roared, 

And fearful was the din ! 
The startling horses plunged and flung, 
Clamored the dogs till turrets rung. 

Nor sunk the fearful cry 
Till not a foeman was there found 
Alive save those who on the ground 760 

Groaned in their agony ! 

XXXII 

The valiant Clifford is no more; 

On Ronald's broadsword streamed his gore. 

But better hap had he of Lorn, 

Who, by the foeman backward borne. 

Yet gained with slender train the port 

Where lay his bark beneath the fort. 

And cut the cable loose. 
Short were his shrift in that debate, 
That hour of fury and of fate, 770 

If Lorn encountered Bruce ! 
Then long and loud the victor shout 
From turret and from tower rung out, 

The rugged vaults replied; 
And from the donjon tower on high 
The men of Carrick may descry 
Saint Andrew's cross in blazonry 

Of silver waving wide ! 

XXXIII 

The Bruce hath won his father's hall ! — 

* Welcome, brave friends and comrades all, 

Welcome to mirth and joy ! 781 

The first, the last, is welcome here. 
From lord and chieftain, prince and peer, 

To this poor speechless boy. 
Great God ! once more my sire's abode 
Is mine — behold the floor I trode 

In tottering infancy ! 
And there the vaulted arch whose sound 
Echoed my joyous shout and bound 
In boyhood, and that rung around 790 

To youth's unthinking glee ! 
O, first to thee, all-gracious Heaven, 
Then to my friends, my thanks be 

given ! ' — 
He paused a space, his brow he crossed — 
Then on the board his sword he tossed. 
Yet steaming hot ; with Southern gore 
From hilt to point 't was crimsoned o'er. 

XXXIV 

* Bring here,' he said, * the mazers four 
My noble fathers loved of yore. 



Thrice let them circle round the board, 800 
The pledge, fair Scotland's rights re- 
stored ! 
And he whose lip shall touch the wine 
Without a vow as true as mine. 
To hold both lands and life at nought 
Until her freedom shall be bought, — 
Be brand of a disloyal Scot 
And lasting infamy his lot ! 
Sit, gentle friends ! our hour of glee 
Is brief, we '11 spend it joyously ! 
Blithest of all the sun's bright beams, 810 
When betwixt storm and storm he gleams. 
Well is our country's work begun. 
But more, far more, must yet be done. 
Speed messengers the country through; 
Arouse old friends and gather new; 
Warn Lanark's knights to gird their mail, 
Rouse the brave sons of Teviotdale, 
Let Ettrick's archers sharp their darts. 
The fairest forms, the truest hearts ! 
Call all, call all ! from Reeds wair-Path 820 
To the wild confines of Cape- Wrath; 
Wide let the news through Scotland 

ring,— 
The Northern Eagle claps his wing ! ' 



CANTO SIXTH 



O WHO that shared them ever shall for- 

get ^ 
The emotions of the spirit-rousing time. 
When breathless in the mart the couriers 

met 
Early and late, at evening and at prime ; 
When the loud cannon and the merry 

chime 
Hailed news on news, as field on field was 

won, 
When Hope, long doubtful, soared at 

length sublime. 
And our glad eyes, awake as day he- 

Watched Joy's broad banner rise to meet 
the rising sun ! 

O these were hours when thrilling joy 
repaid 10 

A long, long course of darkness, doubts, 
and fears I 

The heart-sick faintness of the hope de- 
layed, 



352 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and 

the tears, 
That tracked with terror twenty rolling 

years, ^ 

All was forgot in that blithe jubilee ! 
Her downcast eye even pale Affliction 

rears. 
To sigh a thankful prayer amid the 

glee 
That hailed the Despot's fall, and peace 

and liberty ! 

Such news o'er Scotland's hills trium- 
phant rode 
When 'gainst the invaders turned the 

battle's scale, ^o 

When Bruce's banner had victorious 

flowed 
O'er Loudoun's mountain and in Urv's 

vale; "^ 

When English blood oft deluged Doug-- 

las-dale, ^ ^ 

And fiery Edward routed stout Saint 

John, 
When Randolph's war-cry swelled the 

southern gale. 
And many a fortress, town, and tower 

was won. 
And Fame stHl sounded forth fresh deeds 

of glory done. 

II 
Blithe tidings flew from baron's tower 
To peasant's cot, to forest-bower, 
And waked the solitary cell 30 

Where lone Saint Bride's recluses dwell. 
Princess no more, fair Isabel, 

A votaress of the order now. 
Say, did the rule that bid thee wear 
Dim veil and woollen scapulare, 
And reft thy locks of dark-brown hair, 

That stern and rigid vow. 
Did it condemn the transport high 
Which glistened in thy watery eye 
When minstrel or when palmer told 40 

Each fresh exploit of Bruce the bold ? -— 
And whose the lovely form that shares 
Thy anxious hopes, thy fears, thy prayers ? 
No sister she of convent shade; 
So say these locks in lengthened braid, 
So say the blushes and the sighs, 
The tremors that unbidden rise. 
When, mingled with the Bruce's fame. 
The brave Lord Ronald's praises came. 



Ill 



50 



70 



Believe, his father's castle won 

And his bold enterprise begun, 

That Bruce's earliest cares restore 

The speechless page to Arran's shore: 

Nor think that long the quaint disguise 

Concealed her from a sister's eyes; 

And sister-like in love they dwell 

In that lone convent's silent cell. 

There Bruce's slow assent allows 

Fair Isabel the veil and vows; 

And there, her sex's dress regained, 6c 

The lovely Maid of Lorn remained. 

Unnamed, unknown, while Scotland far 

Resounded with the din of war; 

And many a month and many a day 

In calm seclusion wore away. 

IV 

These days, these months, to years had 

worn 
When tidings of high weight were borne 

To that lone island's shore; 
Of all the Scottish conquests made 
By the First Edward's ruthless blade 

His son retained no more. 
Northward of Tweed, but Stirling's tow- 

ers, 
Beleaguered by King Robert's powers; 

And they took term of truce. 
If England's King should not relieve 
The siege ere John the Baptist's eve. 

To yield them to the Bruce. 
England was roused — on every side 
Courier and post and herald hied 

To summon prince and peer, 80 

At Berwick-bounds to meet their liege. 
Prepared to raise fair Stirling's siege 

With buckler, brand, and spear. 
The term was nigh — they mustered fast, 
By beacon and by bugle-blast 

Forth marshalled for the fiejd; 
There rode each knight of noble name, 
There England's hardy archers came, 
The land they trode seemed all on flame 

With banner, blade, and shield ! 90 

And not famed England's powers alone, 
Renowned in arms, the summons own; 

For Neustria's knights obeyed, 
Gascogne hath lent her horsemen good, 
And Cambria, but of late subdued, 
Sent forth her mountain-multitude, 
And Connoght poured from waste and 
wood 



CANTO SIXTH 



353 



Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude 
Dark Eth O'Connor swayed. 



Right to devoted Caledon loo 

The storm of war rolls slowly on 

With menace deep and dread ; 
So the dark clouds with gathering power 
Suspend awhile the threatened shower, 
Till every peak and summit lower 

Round the pale pilgrim's head. 
Not with such pilgrim's startled eye 
King Robert marked the tempest nigh I 

Resolved the brunt to bide, 
His royal summons warned the land no 
That all who owned their king's command 
Should instant take the spear and brand 

To combat at his side. 
O, who may tell the sons of fame 
That at King Robert's bidding came 

To battle for the right ! 
From Cheviot to the shores of Ross, 
From Solway-Sands to Marshal's-Moss, 

All bouned them for the fight. 
Such news the royal courier tells 120 

Who came to rouse dark Arran's dells; 
But farther tidings must the ear 
Of Isabel in secret hear. 
These in her cloister walk next morn 
Thus shared she with the Maid of Lorn: — 

VI 

* My Edith, can I tell how dear 
Our intercourse of hearts sincere 

Hath been to Isabel ? — 
Judge then the sorrow of my heart 
When I must say the words. We part ! 130 

The cheerless convent-cell 
Was not, sweet maiden, made for thee; 
Go thou where thy vocation free 

On happier fortunes fell. 
Nor, Edith, judge thyself betrayed, 
Though Robert knows that Lorn's high 

maid 
And his poor silent page were one. 
Versed in the fickle heart of man. 
Earnest and anxious hath he looked 139 
How Ronald's heart the message brooked 
That gave him with her last farewell 
The charge of Sister Isabel, 
To think upon thy better right 
And keep the faith his promise plight. 
Forgive him for thy sister's sake 
At first if vain repinings wake — 

Long since that mood is gone : 



Now dwells he on thy juster claims. 
And oft his breach of faith he blames ■ 
Forgive him for thine own ! ' — 



150 



VII 



* No ! never to Lord Ronald's bower 
Will I again as paramour ' — 

* Nay, hush thee, too impatient maid, 
Until my final tale be said ! — 

The good King Robert would engage 

Edith once more his elfin page. 

By her own heart and her own eye 

Her lover's penitence to try — 

Safe in his roj^al charge and free. 

Should such thy final purpose be, i6c 

Again unknown to seek the cell, 

And live and die with Isabel.' 

Thus spoke the maid — King Robert's eye 

Might have some glance of policy; 

Dunstaffnage had the monarch ta'en, 

And Lorn had owned King Robert's reign; 

Her brother had to England fled. 

And there in banishment was dead; 

Ample, through exile, death, and flight, 

O'er tower and land was Edith's right; 170 

This ample right o'er tower and land 

Were safe in Ronald's faithful hand. 

VIII 

Embarrassed eye and blushing cheek 
Pleasure and shame and fear bespeak ! 
Yet much the reasoning Edith made: 

* Her sister's faith she must upbraid. 
Who gave such secret, dark and dear, 
In council to another's ear. 

Why should she leave the peaceful cell ? — 
How should she part with Isabel ? — 180 
How wear that strange attire agen ? — 
How risk herself midst martial men ? — 
And how be guarded on the way ? — 
At least she might entreat delay.' 
Kind Isabel with secret smile 
Saw and forgave the maiden's wile, 
Reluctant to be thought to move 
At the first call of truant love. 

IX 

O, blame her not ! — when zephyrs wake 189 
The aspen's trembling leaves must shake ; 
When beams the sun through April's 

shower 
It needs must bloom, the violet flower; 
And Love, howe'er the maiden strive, 
Must with reviving hope revive I 
A thousand soft excuses came 



354 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



To plead his cause 'gainst virgin shame. 
Fledged by their sires in earliest youth, 
He had her plighted faith and truth — 
Then, 't was her liege's strict command. 
And she beneath his royal hand 20c 

A ward in person and in land: — 
And, last, she was resolved to stay 
Only brief space — one little day — 
Close hidden in her safe disguise 
From all, but most from Ronald's eyes — 
But once to see him more ! — nor blame 
Her wish — to hear him name her name ! — 
Then to bear back to solitude 
The thought he had his falsehood rued ! 
But Isabel, who long had seen 21c 

Her pallid cheek and pensive mien. 
And well herself the cause might know. 
Though innocent, of Edith's woe. 
Joyed, generous, that revolving time 
Gave means to expiate the crime. 
High glowed her bosom as she said, 
* Well shall her sufferings be repaid ! ' 
Now came the parting hour — a band 
From Arran's mountains left the land; 
Their chief, Fitz-Louis, had the care 22c 
The speechless Amadine to bear 
To Bruce with honor, as behoved 
To page the monarch dearly loved. 



The king had deemed the maiden bright 
Should reach him long before the fight, 
But storms and fate her course delay: 
It was on eve of battle-day 
When o'er the Gillie's-hill she rode. 
The landscape like a furnace glowed, 
And far as e'er the eye was borne 230 

The lances waved like autumn-corn. 
In battles four beneath their eye 
The forces of King Robert lie. 
And one below the hill was laid. 
Reserved for rescue and for aid; 
And three advanced formed vaward-line, 
'Twixt Bannock's brook and Ninian's shrine. 
Detached was each, yet each so nigh 
As well might mutual aid supply. 
Beyond, the Southern host appears, 240 

A boundless wilderness of spears. 
Whose YBTge or rear the anxious eye 
Strove far, but strove in vain, to spy. 
Thick flashing in the evening beam. 
Glaives, lances, bills, and banners gleam ; 
And where the heaven joined with the hill. 
Was distant armor flashing still. 
So wide, so far, the boundless host 
Seemed in the blue horizon lost. 



XI 

Down from the hill the maiden passed, 250 
At the wild show of war aghast; 
And traversed first the rearward host. 
Reserved for aid where needed most. 
The men of Carrick and of Ayr, 
Lennox and Lanark too, were there, 

And all the western land ; 
With these the valiant of the Isles 
Beneath their chieftains ranked their files 

In many a plaided band. 
There in the centre proudly raised, 260 

The Bruce's royal standard blazed. 
And there Lord Ronald's banner bore 
A galley driven by sail and oar. 
A wild yet pleasing contrast made 
Warriors in mail and plate arrayed 
With the plumed bonnet and the plaid 

By these Hebrideans worn; 
But O, unseen for three long years. 
Dear was the garb of mountaineers 

To the fair Maid of Lorn ! 270 

For one she looked — but he was far 
Busied amid the ranks of war — 
Yet with affection's troubled eye 
She marked his banner boldly fly, 
Gave on the countless foe a glance. 
And thought on battle's desperate chance. 

XII 

To centre of the vaward-line 
Fitz-Louis guided Amadine. 
Armed all on foot, that host appears 
A serried mass of glimmering spears. 280 
There stood the Marchers' warlike band, 
The warriors there of Lodon's land; 
Ettrick and Liddell bent the yew, 
A band of archers fierce though few; 
The men of Nith and Annan's vale. 
And the bold Spears of Te viotdale ; — 
The dauntless Douglas these obey. 
And the young Stuart's gentle sway. 
Northeastward by Saint Ninian's shrine. 
Beneath fierce Randolph's charge, com- 
bine 
The warriors whom the hardy North 
From Tay to Sutherland sent forth. 
The rest of Scotland's war-array 
With Edward Bruce to westward lay, 
Where Bannock with his broken bank 
And deep ravine protects their flank. 
Behind them, screened by sheltering wood, 
The gallant Keith, Lord Marshal, stood: 
His men-at-arms bare mace and lance, 
And plumes that wave and helms that 
glance. 300 



290 



CANTO SIXTH 



355 



Thus fair divided by the king, 
Centre and right and leftward wing 
Composed his front; nor distant far 
Was strong reserve to aid the war. 
And 't was to front of this array 
Her guide and Edith made their way. 

XIII 

Here must they pause ; for, in advance 

As far as one might pitch a lance, 

The monarch rode along the van. 

The foe's approaching force to scan, 310 

His line to marshal and to range, 

And ranks to square, and fronts to change. 

Alone he rode — from head to heel 

Sheathed in his ready arms of steel; 

Nor mounted yet on war-horse wight, 

But, till more near the shock of fight, 

Reining a palfrey low and light. 

A diadem of gold was set 

Above his bright steel basinet. 

And clasped within its glittering twine 320 

Was seen the glove of Argentine; 

Truncheon or leading staff he lacks, 

Bearing instead a battle-axe. 

He ranged his soldiers for the fight 

Accoutred thus, in open sight 

Of either host. — Three bowshots far. 

Paused the deep front of England's war, 

And rested on their arms awhile, 

To close and rank their warlike file. 

And hold high council if that night 330 

Should view the strife or dawning light. 

XIV 

O, gay yet fearful to behold. 

Flashing with steel and rough with gold. 

And bristled o'er with bills and spears. 
With plumes and pennons waving fair. 
Was that bright battle-front ! for there 

Rode England's king and peers: 
And who, that saw that monarch ride. 
His kingdom battled by his side. 
Could then his direful doom foretell ! — 340 
Fair was his seat in knightly selle. 
And in his sprightly eye was set 
Some spark of the Plantagenet. 
Though light and wandering was his 

glance. 
It flashed at sight of shield and lance. 

* Know'st thou,' he said, * De Argentine, 
Yon knight who marshals thus their 

line?' — 

• The tokens on his helmet tell 

The Bruce, my liege: I know him well.' — 



* And shall the audacious traitor brave 350 
The presence where our banners wave ? ' — 

* So please my liege,' said Argentine, 

* Were he but horsed on steed like mine, 
To give him fair and knightly chance, 

I would adventure forth my lance.' — 

* In battle-day,' the king replied, 

* Nice tourney rules are set aside. — 
Still must the rebel dare our wrath ? 

Set on him — Sweep him from our path ! ' 
And at King Edward's signal soon 360 

Dashed from the ranks Sir Henry Boune. 

XV 

Of Hereford's high blood he came, 

A race renowned for knightly fame. 

He burned before his monarch's eye 

To do some deed of chivalry. 

He spurred his steed, he couched his lance, 

And darted on the Bruce at once. 

As motionless as rocks that bide 

The wrath of the advancing tide. 

The Bruce stood fast. — Each breast beat 

high 370 

And dazzled was each gazing eye — 
The heart had hardly time to think. 
The eyelid scarce had time to wink. 
While on the king, like flash of flame. 
Spurred to full speed the war-horse came ! 
The partridge may the falcon mock. 
If that slight palfrey stand the shock — 
But, swerving from the knight's career. 
Just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear. 
Onward the baffled warrior bore 380 

His course — but soon his course was 

o'er ! — 
High in his stirrups stood the king, 
And gave his battle-axe the swing. 
Right on De Boune the whiles he passed 
Fell that stern dint — the first — the 

last ! — 
Such strength upon the blow was put 
The helmet crashed like hazel-nut; 
The axe-shaft with its brazen clasp 
Was shivered to the gauntlet grasp. 
Springs from the blow the startled 

horse, 390 

Drops to the plain the lifeless corse; 
First of that fatal field, how soon, 
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune ! 

XVI 
One pitying glance the monarch sped 
Wliere on the field his foe lay dead; 
Then gently turned his palfrey's head. 



356 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



410 

its 



And, pacing back his sober way, 

Slowly he gained his own array. 

There round their king the leaders crowd, 

And blame his recklessness aloud 400 

That risked 'gainst each adventurous 

spear 
A life so valued and so dear. 
His broken weapon's shaft surveyed 
The king, and careless answer made, 
*My loss may pay my folly's tax; 
I 've broke my trusty battle-axe.' 
'T was then Fitz-Louis bending low 
Did Isabel's commission show; 
Edith disguised at distance stands. 
And hides her blushes with her hands. 
The monarch's brow has changed 

hue. 
Away the gory axe he threw, 
While to the seeming page he drew, 

Clearing war's terrors from his eye. 
Her hand with gentle ease he took 
With such a kind protecting look 

As to a weak and timid boy 
Might speak that elder brother's care 
And elder brother's love were there. 

XVII 

* Fear not,' he said, * young Amadine ! ' 420 

Then whispered, ' Still that name be thine. 

Fate plays her wonted fantasy, 

Kind Amadine, with thee and me, 

And sends thee here in doubtful hour. 

But soon we are beyond her power; 

For on this chosen battle-plain, 

Victor or vanquished, I remain. 

Do thou to yonder hill repair; 

The followers of our host are there, 

Ajid all who may not weapons bear. — 430 

Fitz-Louis, have him in thy care. — 

Joyful we meet, if all go well; 

If not, in Arran's holy cell 

Thou must take part with Isabel; 

For brave Lord Ronald too hath sworn, 

Not to regain the Maid of Lorn — 

The bliss on earth he covets most — 

Would he forsake his battle-post. 

Or shun the fortune that may fall 

To Bruce, to Scotland, and to all. — 440 

But, hark ! some news these trumpets 

tell; 
Forgive my haste — farewell ! — fare- 
well ! ' 
And in a lower voice he said, 
*Be of good cheer — farewell, sweet 
maid 1 ' 



XVIII 

* T\Tiat train of dust, with trumpet-sound 

And glimmering spears, is wheeling round 

Our leftward flank ? ' — the monarch cried 

To Moray's Earl who rode beside. 

' Lo ! round thy station pass the foes ! 

Randolph, thy wreath hath lost a rose.' 450 

The Earl his visor closed, and said 

'My wreath shall bloom, or life shall 

fade. — 
Follow, my household ! ' and they go 
Like lightning on the advancing "^foe. 

* My liege,' said noble Douglas then, 
'Earl Randolph has but one to ten: 
Let me go forth his band to aid ! ' — 

* Stir not. The error he hath made, 
Let him amend it as he may; 

I will not weaken mine array.' 460 

Then loudly rose the conflict-cry, 

And Douglas's brave heart swelled high, — 

*My liege,' he said, ' with patient ear 

I must not Moray's death-knell hear ! ' — 

'Then go — but speed thee back again.' 

Forth sprung the Douglas with his train: 

But when they won a rising hill 

He bade his followers hold them still. — 

' See, see ! the routed Southern fly ! 

The Earl hath won the victory. 470 

Lo ! where yon steeds nm masterless, 

His banner towers above the press. 

Rein up; our presence would impair 

The fame we come too late to share.' 

Back to the host the Douglas rode, 

And soon glad tidings are abroad 

That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain. 

His followers fled with loosened rein. — 

That skirmish closed the busy day. 

And couched in battle's prompt array, - 480 

Each army on their weapons lay. 

XIX 

It was a night of lovely June, 

High rode in cloudless'blue the moon, 

Demayet smiled beneath her ray; 
Old Stirling's towers arose in light, 
And, twined in links of silver bright, 

Her winding river lay. 
Ah ! gentle planet ! other sight 
Shall greet thee, next returning night. 
Of broken arms and banners tore, 490 

And marshes dark with human gore. 
And piles of slaughtered men and horse. 
And Forth that floats the frequent corse. 
And many a wounded wretch to plain 
Beneath thy silver light in vain ! 



CANTO SIXTH 



357 



But now from England's host the cry 
Thou hear'st of wassail revelry, 
While from the Scottish legions pass 
The murmured prayer, the early mass ! — 
Here, numbers had presumption given; 500 
There, bands o'ermatched sought aid from 
Heaven. 

XX 

On Gillie's-hill, whose height commands 
The battle-field, fair Edith stands 
With serf and page unfit for war. 
To eye the conflict from afar. 
O, with what doubtful agony 
She sees the dawning tint the sky ! — 
Now on the Ochils gleams the sun. 
And glistens now Demayet dun; 

Is it the lark that carols shrill, 510 

Is it the bittern's early hum ? 

No ! — distant but increasing still. 

The trumpet's sound swells up the 
hill. 
With the deep murmur of the drum. 
Responsive from the Scottish host. 
Pipe-clang and bugle-sound were tossed. 
His breast and brow each soldier crossed 

And started from the ground; 
Armed and arrayed for instant fight, 519 
Rose archer, spearman, squire and knight, 
And in the pomp of battle bright 

The dread battalia frowned. 

XXI 

Now onward and in open view 

The countless ranks of England drew, 

Dark rolling like the ocean-tide 

When the rough west hath chafed his 

pride. 
And his deep roar sends challenge wide 

To all that bars his way ! 
In front the gallant archers trode, 
The men-at-arms behind them rode, 530 
And midmost of the phalanx broad 

The monarch held his sway. 
Beside him many a war-horse fumes, 
Around him waves a sea of plumes. 
Where many a knight in battle known. 
And some who spurs had first braced on 
And deemed that fight should see them 
won. 

King Edward's bests obey. 
De Argentine attends his side, 539 

With stout De Valence, Pembroke's pride. 
Selected champions from the train 
To wait upon his bridle-rein. 



Upon the Scottish foe he gazed — 
At once before his sight amazed 

Sunk banner, spear, and shield; 
Each weapon-point is downward sent. 
Each warrior to the ground is bent. 

* The rebels, Argentine, repent ! 

For pardon they have kneeled.' — 

* Ay ! — but they bend to other powers, 550 
And other pardon sue than ours ! 

See where yon barefoot abbot stands 
And blesses them with lifted hands ! 
Upon the spot where they have kneeled 
These men will die or win the field.' — 

* Then prove we if they die or win ! 
Bid Gloster's Earl the fight begin.' 

XXII 

Earl Gilbert waved his truncheon high 

Just as the Northern ranks arose. 
Signal for England's archery 560 

To halt and bend their bows. 
Then stepped each yeoman forth a pace. 
Glanced at the intervening space, 

And raised his left hand high ; 
To the right ear the cords they bring — 
At once ten thousand bow-strings ring. 

Ten thousand arrows fly ! 
Nor paused on the devoted Scot 
The ceaseless fury of their shot; 

As fiercely and as fast 570 

Forth whistling came the gray-goose wing 
As the wild hailstones pelt and ring 

Adown December's blast. 
Nor mountain targe of tough bull-hide. 
Nor lowland mail, that storm may bide; 
Woe, woe to Scotland's bannered pride. 

If the fell shower may last ! 
Upon the right behind the wood, 
Eacli by his steed dismounted stood 

The Scottish chivalry ; — 580 

With foot in stirrup, hand on mane. 
Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain 
His own keen heart, his eager train. 
Until the archers gained the plain; 

Then, < Mount, ye gallants free ! ' 
He cried; and vaulting from the ground 
His saddle every horseman found. 
On high their glittering crests they toss, 
As springs the wild-fire from the moss; 
The shield hangs down on every breast, 590 
Each ready lance is in the rest, 

And loud shouts Edward Bruce, 

* Forth, Marshal ! on the peasant foe I 
We '11 tamo the terrors of their bow, 

And cut the bow-string loose I ' 



3S^ 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



XXIII 

Then spurs were dashed in chargers' 

flanks, 
They rushed among the archer ranks, 
No spears were there the shock to let. 
No stakes to turn the charge were set, 
And how shall yeoman's armor slight 600 
Stand the long lance and mace of might ? 
Or what may their short swords avail 
'Gainst barbed horse and shirt of mail ? 
Amid their ranks the chargers sprung, 
High o'er their heads the weapons swung, 
And shriek and groan and vengeful shout 
Give note of triumph and of rout ! 
Awhile with stubborn hardihood 
Their English hearts the strife made good. 
Borne down at length on every side, 610 
Compelled to flight they scatter wide. — 
Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee, 
And bound the deer of Dallom-Lee ! 
The broken vows of Bannock's shore 
Shall in the greenwood ring no more ! 
Round Wakefield's merry May-pole now 
The maids may twine the summer bough. 
May northward look with longing glance 
For those that wont to lead the dance. 
For the blithe archers look in vain ! 620 
Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en. 
Pierced through, trode down, by thousands 

slain. 
They cumber Bannock's bloody plain. 

XXIV 
The king with scorn beheld their flight. 
* Are these,' he said, * our yeomen wight ? 
Each braggart churl could boast before 
Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore ! 
Fitter to plunder chase or park 
Than make a manly foe their mark. — 
Forward, each gentleman and knight ! 630 
Let gentle blood show generous might 
And chivalry redeem the fight ! ' 
To rightward of the wild affray. 
The field shewed fair and level way; 

But in mid-space the Bruce's care 
Had bored the ground with many a pit, 
With turf and brushwood hidden yet. 

That formed a ghastly snare. 
Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came. 
With spears in rest and hearts on flame 640 

That panted for the shock f 
With blazing crests and banners spread. 
And trumpet-clang and clamor dread. 
The wide plain thundered to their tread 

As far as Stirling rock. 



Down ! down ! in headlong overthrow, 
Horseman and horse, the foremost go, 

Wild floundering on the field ! 
The first are in destruction's gorge, 
Their followers wildly o'er them 
urge;— 650 

The knightly helm and shield, 
The mail, the acton, and the spear. 
Strong hand, high heart, are useless here ! 
Loud from the mass confused the cry 
Of dying warriors swells on high, 
And steeds that shriek in agony ! 
They came like mountain-torrent red 
That thunders o'er its rocky bed; 
They broke like that same torrent's wave 
When swallowed by a darksome cave. 660 
Billows on billows burst and boil. 
Maintaining still the stern turmoil. 
And to their wild and tortured groan 
Each adds new terrors of his own ! 

XXV 

Too strong in courage and in might 
Was England yet to yield the fight. 

Her noblest all are here; 
Names that to fear were never known, 
Bold Norfolk's Earl De Brotherton, 

And Oxford's famed De Vere. 670 

There Gloster plied the bloody sword, 
And Berkley, Grey, and Hereford, 

Bottetourt and Sanzavere, 
Ross, Montague, and Mauley came, 
And Courtenay's pride, and Percy's fame — 
Names known too well in Scotland's war 
At Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar, 
Blazed broader yet in after years 
At Cressy red and fell Poitiers. 
Pembroke with these and Argentine 680 
Brought up the rearward battle-line. 
With caution o'er the ground they tread, 
Slippery with blood and piled with dead, 
Till hand to hand in battle set, 
The bills with spears and axes met. 
And, closing dark on every side. 
Raged the full contest far and wide. 
Then was the strength of Douglas tried, 
Then proved was Randolph's generous 

pride, 
And well did Stewart's actions grace 690 
The sire of Scotland's royal race ! 

Firmly they kept their ground; 
As firmly England onward pressed, 
And down went many a noble crest. 
And rent was many a valiant breast, 

And Slaughter revelled round. 



CANTO SIXTH 



359 



XXVI 
Unflinching foot 'gainst foot was set, 
Unceasing blow by blow was met; 

The groans of those who fell 
Were drowned amid the shriller clang 700 
That from the blades and harness rang, 

And in the battle-yell. 
Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot. 
Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot; 
And O, amid that waste of life 
What various motives fired the strife ! 
The aspiring noble bled for fame. 
The patriot for his country's claim; 
This knight his youthful strength to prove, 
And that to win his lady's love: 710 

Some fought from ruffian thirst of blood, 
From habit some or hardihood. 
But ruffian stern and soldier good, 

The noble and the slave. 
From various cause the same wild road, 
On the same bloody morning, trode 

To that dark inn, the grave ! 

XXVII 

The tug of strife to flag begins. 
Though neither loses yet nor wins. 
High rides the sun, thick rolls the dust, 720 
And feebler speeds the blow and thrust. 
Douglas leans on his war-sword now. 
And Randolph wipes his bloody brow; 
Nor less had toiled each Southern knight 
From morn till mid-day in the fight. 
Strong Egremont for air must gasp, 
Beauchamp undoes his visor-clasp. 
And Montague must quit his spear. 
And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere ! 
The blows of Berkley fall less fast, 730 

And gallant Pembroke's bugle-blast 

Hath lost its lively tone; 
Sinks, Argentine, thy battle-word. 
And Percy's shout was fainter heard, — 

* My merry-men, fight on ! ' 

XXVIII 

Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye. 
The slackening of the storm could spy. 
* One effort more and Scotland 's free I 
Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee 

Is firm as Ailsa Rock; 740 

Rush on with Highland sword and targe, 
I with my Carrick spearmen charge; 

Now forward to the shock ! ' 
At once the spears were forward thrown, 
Against the sun the broadswords sh©ne; 
The pibroch lent its maddening tone, 



And 



750 



loud King Robert's voice was 
known — 

* Carrick, press on — they fail, they fail ! 
Press on, brave sons of Innisgail, 

The foe is fainting fast ! 
Each strike for parent, child, and wife, 
For Scotland, liberty, and life, — 

The battle cannot last ! ' 

XXIX 

The fresh and desperate onset bore 
The foes three furlongs back and more, 
Leaving their noblest in their gore. 

Alone, De Argentine 
Yet bears on high his red-cross shield, 
Gathers the relics of the field. 
Renews the ranks where they have 
reeled, 760 

And still makes good the line. 
Brief strife but fierce his efforts raise, 
A bright but momentary blaze. 
Fair Edith heard the Southern shout. 
Beheld them turning from the rout. 
Heard the wild call their trumpets sent 
In notes 'twixt triumph and lament. 
That rallying force, combined anew, 
Appeared in her distracted view 

To hem the Islesmen round; 77c 

* O God ! the combat they renew. 

And is no rescue found ! 
And ye that look thus tamely on, 
And see your native land o'erthrown, 
O, are your hearts of flesh or stone ? ' 

XXX 

The multitude that watched afar. 
Rejected from the ranks of war. 
Had not unmoved beheld the fight 
When strove the Bruce for Scotland's 

right; 
Each heart had caught the patriot spark, 780 
Old man and stripling, priest and clerk. 
Bondsman and serf; even female hand 
Stretched to the hatchet or the brand; 
But when mute Amadine they heard 
Give to their zeal his signal-word 

A frenzy fired the throng; — 
* Portents and miracles impeach 
Our sloth — the dumb our duties 

teach — 
And he that gives the mute his speech 
Can bid the weak be strong. 790 

To us as to our lords are given 
A native earth, a promised heaven; 
To us as to our lords belongs 



360 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 



The vengeance for our nation's wrongs; 
The choice 'twixt death or freedom warms 
Our breasts as theirs — To arms! to 
arms ! ' 

To arms they flew, — axe, chib, or spear 

And mimic ensigns high they rear, 

And, like a bannered host afar, 

Bear down on England's wearied war. 800 

XXXI 

Already scattered o'er the plain, 

Reproof, command, and counsel vain, 
The rearward squadrons fled amain 

Or made but doubtful stav; — 
But when they marked the seeming show 
Of fresh and fierce and marshalled foe. 

The boldest broke array. 
O. giye their hapless prince his due ! 
In yain the royal Edward threw 

His person mid the spears, 810 

Cried, ' Fight ! ' to terror and despair, 
Menaced and wept and tore his hair, 

And cursed their caitrff fears; 
Till Pembroke turned his bridle rein 
And forced him from the fatal plain. 
With them rode Argentine until 
They gained the summit of the hill, 

But quitted there the train: — 
' In yonder field a gage I left, 
I must not liye of fame bereft; 820 

I needs must turn again. 
Speed hence, my liege, for on your trace 
The fiery Douglas takes the chase, 

I know his banner well. 
God send my soyereign joy and bliss. 
And many a happier field 'than this ! — 

Once more, my liege, farewell ! ' 

XXXII 

Aofain he faced the battle-field, — 
WUdly they fly, are slain, or yield. 
*Xow then,' he said, and couched his 
^, spear, 830 

'JMy course is run, the goal is near; 
One effort more, one braye career, 

Must close this race of mine.' 
Then in his stirrups rising high, 
He shouted loud his battle-cry, 

* Saint James for Argentine ! ' 
And of the bold pursuers four 
The gallant knight from saddle bore; 
But not unharmed — a lance's point 
Has found his breastplate's loosened 

An axe has razed his crest; 
Yet still on Colonsay's fierce lord. 



Who pressed the chase with gory sword. 

He rode with spear in rest, 
And through his bloody tartans bored 
^ And through his gallant breast. 
Nailed to the earth, the mountaineer 
Yet writhed him up against the spear, 

And swung his broadsword round I 
Stirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gaye way 850 
Beneath that blow's tremendous sway, 

The blood gushed from the wound; 
And the gi-im Lord of Colonsay 

Hath turned him on the ground, 
And laughed in death-pang that his blade 
The mortal thrust so well repaid. 

XXXIII 
Xow toiled the Bruce, the battle done. 
To use his conquest boldly won; 
And gaye command for horse and spear 
To press the Southron's scattered rear, 860 
Xor let his broken force combine. 
When the war-cry of Argentine 

Fell faintly on his ear; 
' Saye, saye his life,' he cried, « O, save 
The kind, the noble, and the brave ! ' 
The squadrons round free passage gave, 

The wounded knight drew near; 
He raised his red-cross shield no more. 
Helm, cuish, and breastplate streamed with 

gore. 
Yet, as he saw the king advance, 870 

He strove even then to couch his lance — 

The effort was in vain ! 
The spur-stroke failed to rouse the horse; 
^A ounded and weary, in mid course 

He stumbled on the plain. 
Then foremost was the generous Bruce 
To raise his head, his helm to loose; — 

' Lord Earl, the day is thine ! 
My sovereign's charge and adverse fate 
Have made our meeting all too late; 8S0 

Yet this may Argentine 
As boon from ancient comrade crave — 
A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave.' 

XXXIV 

Bruce pressed his dying hand — its grasp 
Kindly replied; buf, in his clasp. 

It stiffened and grew cold — 
* And, O farewell ! ' the victor cried, 
' Of chivalry the flower and pride. 

The arm in battle bold, 
The courteous mien, the noble race, 890 
The stainless faith, the manly face ! -— 
Bid Xinian's convent light their shrine 
For late-wake of De Argentine. 



CONCLUSION 



361 



O'er better knight on death-bier laid 
Torch never gleamed nor mass was said ! ' 

XXXV 

Nor for De Argentine alone 

Through Ninian's church these torches 

shone 
And rose the death-prayer's awful tone. 
That yellow lustre glimmered pale 
On broken plate and bloodied mail, 900 

Kent crest and shattered coronet, 
Of baron, earl, and banneret; 
And the best names that England knew 
Claimed in the death-prayer dismal due. 

Yet mourn not. Land of Fame ! 
Though ne'er the Leopards on thy shield 
Retreated from so sad a field 

Since Norman William came. 
Oft may thine annals justly boast 
Of battles stern by Scotland lost; 910 

Grudge not her victory 
When for her freeborn rights she strove; 
Rights dear to all who freedom love, 

To none so dear as thee ! 

XXXVI 

Turn we to Bruce whose curious ear 
Must from Fitz-Louis tidings hear; 
With him a hundred voices tell 
Of prodigy and miracle, 

* For the mute page had spoke.' — 

* Page ! ' said Fitz-Louis, * rather say 920 
An angel sent from realms of day 

To burst the English yoke. 
I saw his plume and bonnet drop 
When hurrying from the mountain top; 
A lovely brow, dark locks that wave, 
To his bright eyes new lustre gave, 
A step as light upon the green, 
As if his pinions waved unseen ! ' 

* Spoke he with none ? ' — * With none — 

one word 
Burst when he saw the Island Lord 930 
Returning from the battle-field.' — 

* What answer made the chief ? ' — * He 

kneeled, 
Durst not look up, but muttered low 
Some mingled sounds that none might 

know. 
And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear 
As being of superior sphere.' 

XXVII 

Even upon Bannock's bloody plain 
Heaped then with thousands of the slain. 



Mid victor monarch's musings high, 
Mirth laughed in good King Robert's 
eye:-— 940 

* And bore he such angelic air. 
Such noble front, such waving hair ? 
Hath Ronald kneeled to him ? ' he said; 

* Then must we call the church to aid — 
Our will be to the abbot known 

Ere these strange news are wider blown, 
To Cambuskenneth straight he pass 
And deck the church for solemn mass. 
To pay for high deliverance given 
A nation's thanks to gracious Heaven. 950 
Let him array besides such state. 
As should on princes' nuptials wait. 
Ourself the cause, through fortune's spite, 
That once broke short that spousal rite, 
Ourself will grace with early morn 
The bridal of the Maid of Lorn.' 



CONCLUSION 

Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous 

way; 
Go boldly forth; nor yet thy master 

blame 
Who chose no patron for his humble lay. 
And graced thy numbers, with no friendly 

name 
Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path 

to fame. 
There was — and O, how many sorrows 

crowd 
Into these two brief words ! — there was 

a claim 
By generous friendship given — had fate 

allowed. 
It well had bid thee rank the proudest of 

the proud ! 

All angel now — yet little less than all 
While still a pilgrim in our world below ! 
What 'vails it us that patience to recall 
Which hid its own to soothe all other 

woes; 
What 'vails to tell how Virtue's purest 

glow 
Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair: 
And, least of all, what 'vails the world 

should know 
That one poor garland, twined to deck 

thy hair, 
Is hung upon thy hearse to droop and 

wither there ! 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



The brief Advertisement which was the sole 
preface Scott ever wrote to The Field of 
Waterloo intimates the circumstances under 
which it was written and the immediate pur- 
pose of its publication. ' It may be some 
apology for the imperfections of this poem, 
that it was composed hastily, and during a 
short tour upon the Continent, when the 
author's labors were liable to frequent inter- 
ruption ; but its best apology is, that it was 
written for the purpose of assisting the Water- 
loo Subscription.' 

The battle of Waterloo was fought in June, 
1815, and Scott, fired by a spirited letter from 
one of the surgeons on the field to a brother in 
Edinburgh, suddenly resolved in the middle of 
July to go to Brussels and visit the battle-field. 
As an illustration of the slowness of travel at 
that time it may be noted that though he and his 
companions left Edinburgh 28 July, they did 
not reach Harwich till 4 August, when they 
hired a boat to take them to Helvoetsluys. 
The excursion was minutely chronicled in the 
prose Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk, and gave 
rise to some animated personal letters printed 
by Lockhart. The poem also appears to have 
been begun and indeed practically completed en 
route. 

Scott wrote to Mr. Morritt, under date of 
2 October, 1815, the poem ' will be out this 
week, and you shall have a copy by the Car- 
lisle coach, which pray judge favorably, and 
remember it is not always the grandest actions 
which are best adapted for the arts of poetry 
and painting. I believe I shall give offence 
to my old friends the Whigs, by not condoling 
with Buonaparte. Since his sentence of trans- 
portation, he has begun to look wonderfully 
comely in their eyes. I would they had hanged 
him, that he might have died a perfect Adonis.' 
Lockhart, at the close of chapter xxxv., gives 
a transcript of some notes written on the mar- 
gin of the proof-sheets of the poem. John 
Ballantyne was at Abbotsford when the proof 
was ready, so his brother James sent the sheets 



to him with his own comments, and John en- 
tertained himself with recording below James's 
notes, the remarks which Scott made. Some 
of the more interesting of these points will 
be found in the Notes at the end of this vol- 
ume. 

The timeliness of the publication, and its 
manner, for it appeared in October, 1815, in a 
small volume, gave it immediate popularity. 
In writing to Lady Louisa Stuart, who had 
praised it enthusiastically, Scott was not dis- 
posed to be much elated by his success : ' I 
need hardly say,' he writes, ' that your applause 
is always gratifying to me, but more particu- 
larly so when it encourages me to hope I have got 
tolerably well out of a hazardous scrape. The 
Duke of Wellington himself told me there was 
nothing so dreadful as a battle won excepting 
only a battle lost. And lost or won, I can an- 
swer for it, they are almost as severe upon the 
bard who celebrates as the warrior who fights 
them. But I had committed myself in the 
present case, and like many a hot-headed man, 
had got into the midst of the fray without con- 
sidering well how I was to clear myself out of 
it.' Scott went on in his letter to speak of the 
other tasks that had been employing him, con- 
cluding : ' If you ask me why I do these things, 
I would be much at a loss to give a good answer. 
I have been tempted to write for fame, and 
there have been periods when I have been 
compelled to write for money. Neither of 
these motives now exist — my fortune, though 
moderate, suffices my wishes, and I have heard 
so many blasts from the trumpet of Fame, both 
good and evil, that I am hardly tempted to 
solicit her notice anew. But the habit of 
throwing my ideas into rhyme is not easily 
conquered, and so, like Dogberry, I go on 
bestowing my tediousness upon the public' 
The poem was issued in a cheap form and 
quickly surpassed in circulation both of the 
two long poems which were freshest in the 
memory of readers, Rokeby and The Lord of the 
Isles, 



362 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



363 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



Though Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand, 

And Albert rushed on Henry's way-worn band, 

With Europe's chosen sons, in arms renowned, 

Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they looked, 

Nor Audley's squires nor Mowbray's yeomen brooked, — 

They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound. 

Akbnsidb. 



TO 

HER GRACE 

THE 

DUCHESS OF WELLINGTON, 

PRINCESS OF WATERLOO, 

&C., &C., &C., 

THE FOLLOWING VERSES 

ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

It may be some apology for the imperfections of this poem, that it was composed hastily, and during a 
short tour upon the Contment, when the Author's labors were liable to frequent interruption ; but its best 
apology is, that it was written for the purpose of assisting the Waterloo Subscription. 

Abbotsford, 1 815. 



Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, 
Though, lingering on the morning wind, 

We yet may hear the hour 
Pealed over orchard and canal. 
With voice prolonged and measured fall. 

From proud Saint Michael's tower; 
Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now. 
Where the tall beeches' glossy bough 

For many a league around. 
With birch and darksome oak between, i 
Spreads deep and far a pathless screen 

Of tangled forest ground. 
Stems planted close by stems defy 
The adventurous foot — the curious eye 

For access seeks in vain; 
And the brown tapestry of leaves. 
Strewed on the bliglited ground, receives 

Nor sun nor air nor rain. 



No opening glade dawns on our way. 

No streamlet glancing to the ray 20 

Our woodland path has crossed; 
And the straight causeway which we tread 
Prolongs a line of dull arcade, 
Unvarying through the unvaried shade 

Until in distance lost. 

II 

A brighter, livelier scene succeeds; 
In groups the scattering wood recedes, 
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads. 

And corn-fields glance between; 
The peasant at his labor blithe 30 

Plies the hooked staff and shortened 
scythe : — 

Rut when these cars were green, 
Placed close within destruction's scope, 
Full little was that rustic's hope 



3^4 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



Their ripening to have seen ! 
And, lo ! a hamlet and its fane: — 
Let not the gazer with disdain 

Their architecture view; 
For yonder rude ungraceful shrine 
And disproportioned spire are thine, 40 

Immortal Waterloo ! 

Ill 

Fear not the heat, though full and high 
The sun has scorched the autumn sky, 
And scarce a forest straggler now 
To shade us spreads a greenwood bough; 
These fields have seen a hotter day 
Than e'er was fired by sunny ray. 
Yet one mile on — yon shattered hedge 
Crests the soft hill whose long smooth 
ridge 

Looks on the field below, 50 

And sinks so gently on the dale 
That not the folds of Beauty's veil 

In easier curves can flow. 
Brief space from thence the ground again 
Ascending slowly from the plain 

Forms an opposing screen. 
Which with its crest of upland ground 
Shuts the horizon all around. 

The softened vale between 
Slopes smooth and fair for courser's tread; 
Not the most timid maid need dread 61 
To give her snow-white palfrey head 

On that wide stubble-ground; 
Nor wood nor tree nor bush are there, 
Her course to intercept or scare, 

Nor fosse nor fence are found, 
Save where from out her shattered bowers 
Rise Hougomont's dismantled towers. 

IV 

Now, see'st thou aught in this lone scene 
Can tell of that which late hath been? — 70 

A stranger might reply, 
* The bare extent of stubble-plain 
Seems lately lightened of its grain; 
And yonder sable tracks remain 
Marks of the peasant's ponderous wain 

When harvest-home was nigh. 
On these broad spots of trampled ground 
Perchance the rustics danced such round 

As Teniers loved to draw; 
And where the earth seems scorched by 
flame, 80 

To dress the homely feast they came, 
And toiled the kerchiefed village dame 

Around her fire of straw.' 



So deem'st thou — so each mortal deems 
Of that which is from that which seems ; — 

But other harvest here 
Than that which peasant's scythe demands 
Was gathered in by sterner hands, 

With bayonet, blade, and spear. 
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, 90 

No stinted harvest thin and cheap ! 
Heroes before each fatal sweep 

Fell thick as ripened grain; 
And ere the darkening of the day, 
Piled high as autumn shocks there lay 
The ghastly harvest of the fray, 

The corpses of the slain. 

VI 

Ay, look again — that line so black 

And trampled marks the bivouac, 99 

Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's track, 

So often lost and won; 
And close beside the hardened mud 
Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood. 
The fierce dragoon through battle's flood 

Dashed the hot war-horse on. 
These spots of excavation tell 
The ravage of the bursting shell — 
And feel'st thou not the tainted steam 
That reeks against the sultry beam 

From yonder trenched mound ? 1 10 

The pestilential fumes declare 
That Carnage has replenished there 

Her garner-house profound. 

VII 

Far other harvest-home and feast 

Than claims the boor from scythe released 

On these scorched fields were known ! 
Death hovered o'er the maddening rout. 
And in the thrilling battle-shout 
Sent for the bloody banquet out 

A summons of his own. 120 

Through rolling smoke the Demon's eye 
Could well each destined guest espy. 
Well could his ear in ecstasy 

Distinguish every tone 
That filled the chorus of the fray — 
From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray. 
From charging squadrons' wild hurra, 
From the wild clang that marked their 
way,— 

Down to the dying groan 
And the last sob of life's decay 130 

When breath was all but flown. 



I 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



365 



VIII 

Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, 
Feast on ! — but think not that a strife 
With such promiscuous carnage rife 

Protracted space may last; 
The deadly tug of war at length 
Must limits find in human strength. 

And cease when these are past. 
Vain hope ! — that morn's o'erclouded sun 
Heard the wild shout of fight begun 140 

Ere he attained his height. 
And through the war-smoke volumed high 
Still peals that unremitted cry, 

Though now he stoops to night. 
For ten long hours of doubt and dread. 
Fresh succors from the extended head 
Of either hill the contest fed; 

Still down the slope they drew, 
The charge of columns paused not, 
Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot; 150 

For all that war could do 
Of skill and force was proved that day, 
And turned not yet the doubtful fray 

On bloody Waterloo. 

IX 

Pale Brussels ! then what thoughts were 

thine, 
When ceaseless from the distant line 

Continued thunders came ! 
Each burgher held his breath to hear 
These forerunners of havoc near, 

Of rapine and of flame. 160 

What ghastly sights were thine to meet, 
When, rolling through thy stately street. 
The wounded showed their mangled plight 
In token of the unfinished fight, 
And from each anguish-laden wain 
The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain ! 
How often in the distant drum 
Heard'st thou the fell invader come. 
While Ruin, shouting to his band, 169 

Shook high her torch and gory brand ! — 
Cheer thee, fair city ! From yon stand 
Impatient still his outstretched hand 

Points to his prey in vain, 
While maddening in his eager mood 
And all unwont to be withstood, 

He fires the fight again. 



* On ! On ! ' was still his stern exclaim ; 

* Confront the battery's jaws of flame I 

Rush on the levelled gun I 



My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance ! 180 

Each Hulan forward with his lance. 
My Guard — my chosen — charge for 
France, 

France and Napoleon ! ' 
Loud answered their acclaiming shout, 
Greeting the mandate which sent out 
Their bravest and their best to dare 
The fate their leader shunned to share. 
But He, his country's sword and shield, 
Still in the battle-front revealed 
Where danger fiercest swept the field, 190 

Came like a beam of light. 
In action prompt, in sentence brief — 
' Soldiers, stand firm ! ' exclaimed the chief, 

' England shall tell the fight ! ' 

XI 

On came the whirlwind — like the last 

But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast — 

On came the whirlwind — steel - gleams 

broke 
Like lightning through the rolling smoke; 

The war was waked anew, 199 

Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud. 
And from their throats with flash and 
cloud 

Their showers of iron threw. 
Beneath their fire in full career 
Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier. 
The lancer couched his ruthless spear. 
And hurrying as to havoc near 

The cohorts' eagles flew. 
In one dark torrent broad and strong 
The advancing onset rolled along, 
Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim, 210 
That from the shroud of smoke and flame 
Pealed wildly the imperial name. 

XII 

But on the British heart were lost 

The terrors of the charging host; 

For not an eye the storm that viewed 

Changed its proud glance of fortitude, 

Nor was one forward footstep staid. 

As dropped the dying and the dead. 

Fast as their ranks the thunders tear, 219 

Fast they renewed each serried square; 

And on the wounded and the slain 

Closed their diminished files again, 

Till from their lines scarce spears' lengths 

three 
Fmcrging from the smoke they see 
Helmet and plume and panoply — 
Then waked their fire at ouco 1 



366 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



Each musketeer's revolTing knell, 

As fast, as regularlv fell, 

As when they practise to display 

Their discipline on festal day. 230 

Then down went helm and lance, 
Down were the eagle banners sent, 
Down reeling steeds and riders went. 
Corselets were pierced and pennons rent; 

And to augment the fray. 
Wheeled full against their staggering 

flanks, 
The English horsemen's foaming ranks 

Forced their resistless way. 
Then to the musket-knell succeeds 
The clash of swords, the neigh of 

steeds, 240 

As plies the smith his clanging trade, 
Against the cuirass rang the blade; 
And while amid their close array 
The well-served cannon rent their way, 
And while amid their scattered band 
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand, 
Recoiled in common rout and fear 
Lancer and guard and cuirassier. 
Horsemen and foot, — a mingled host. 
Their leaders fallen, their standards 

lost. 250 

XIII 

Then, TTELLryGTON ! thy piercing eye 
This crisis caught of destiny — 

The British host had stood 
That morn 'gainst charge of sword and 

lance 
As their own ocean-rocks hold stance, 
But when thy voice had said, 'Advance ! ' 

They were their ocean's flood. — 
O thou whose inauspicious aim 
Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame, 
Think'st thou thy broken bauds will 
bide 26c 

The terrors of yon rushing tide ? 
Or will thy chosen brook to feel 
The British shock of levelled steel ? 

Or dost thou turn thine eye 
Where coming squadrons gleam afar. 
And fresher thunders wake the war. 

And other standards fly ? — 
Think not that in yon columns file 
Thy conquering troops from distant 
Dyle — 

Is Blucher yet unknown ? 270 

Or dwells not in thy memory still, 
Heard frequent in thine hour of ill, 
What notes of hate and vengeance thrill 



Li Prussia's trumpet tone ? — 
What yet remains ? — shall it be thine 
To head the relics of thy line 

Tn one dread efi'ort more ? — 
The Roman lore thy leisure loved. 
And thou canst tell what fortime proved 

That chieftain who of yore 2Sc 

Ambition's dizzy paths essayed, 
And with the gladiators' aid 

For empire enterprised — 
He stood the cast his rashness played, 
Left not the victims he had made. 
Dug his red grave with his own blade, 
And on the field he lost was laid, 

Abhorred — but not despised. 

XIV 

But if revolves thy fainter thought 
On safety — howsoever bought — 29c 

Then turn thy fearful rein and ride. 
Though twice ten thousand men have died 

On this eventful day. 
To gild the military fame 
Which thou for life in traffic tame 

Wilt barter thus away. 
Shall future ages tell tliis tale 
Of inconsistence faint and frail ? 
And art thou he of Lodi's bridge, 
Marengo's field, and Wagram's ridge ! 300 

Or is thy soul like mountain-tide 
That, swelled by winter storm and shower, 
Rolls down in turbulence of power 

A torrent fierce and wide; 
Reft of these aids, a rill obscure. 
Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor, 

Whose channel shows displayed 
The wrecks of its impetuous course, 
But not one symptom of the force 

By which these wrecks were made ! 310 

XV 

Spur on thy way ! — since now thine ear 
Has brooked thy veterans' wish to hear. 

Who as thy Bight they eyed 
Exclaimed — while tears of anguish came. 
Wrung forth by pride and rage and 
shame — 

' 0, that he had but died ! ' 
But yet, to sum this hour of ill. 
Look ere thou leavest the fatal hill 

Back on yon broken ranks — 
Upon whose wild confusion gleams 310 

The moon, as on the troubled streams 

When rivers break their banks, 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



367 



And to the ruined peasant's eye 
Objects half seen roll swiftly by, 

Down the dread current hurled — 
So mingle banner, wain, and gun, 
Where the tumultuous flight rolls on 
Of warriors who when morn begun 

Defied a banded world. 

XVI 

List — frequent to the hurrying rout, 330 
The stern pursuers' vengeful shout 
Tells that upon their broken rear 
Rages the Prussian's bloody spear. 

So fell a shriek was none 
When Beresina's icy flood 
Reddened and thawed with flamfe and 

blood 
And, pressing on thy desperate way, 
Raised oft and long their wild hurra 

The children of the Don. 
Thine ear no yell of horror cleft 340 

So ominous when, all bereft 
Of aid, the valiant Polack left — 
Ay, left by thee — found soldier's grave 
In Leipsic's corpse-encumbered wave. 
Fate, in these various perils past. 
Reserved thee still some future cast; 
On the dread die thou now hast thrown 
Hangs not a single field alone, 
Nor one campaign — thy martial fame, 
Thy empire, dynasty, and name, 350 

Have felt the final stroke; 
And now o'er thy devoted head 
The last stern vial's wrath is shed, 

The last dread seal is broke. 

XVII 
Since live thou wilt — refuse not now 
Before these demagogues to bow. 
Late objects of thy scorn and hate. 
Who shall thy once imperial fate 
Make wordy theme of vain debate. — 
Or shall we say thou stoop'st less low 360 
In seeking refuge from the foe, 
Against whose heart in prosperous life 
Thine hand hath ever held the knife ? 

Such homage hath been paid 
By Roman and by Grecian voice. 
And there were honor in the choice, 

If it were freely made. 
Then safely come — in one so low, — 
So lost, — we cannot own a foe; 
Though dear experience bid us end, 370 
In thee we ne'er can hail a friend. — 



Come, howsoe'er — but do not hide 
Close in thy heart that germ of pride 
Erewhile by gifted bard espied, 

That * yet imperial hope ; ' 
Think not that for a fresh rebound. 
To raise ambition from the ground, 

We yield thee means or scope. 
In safety come — but ne'er again 
Hold type of independent reign; 38t 

No islet calls thee lord. 
We leave thee no confederate band, 
No symbol of thy lost command. 
To be a dagger in the hand 

From which we wrenched the sword. 

XVIII 

Yet, even in yon sequestered spot. 
May worthier conquest be thy lot 

Than yet thy life has known; 
Conquest unbought by blood or harm, 
That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, 390 

A triumph all thine own. 
Such waits thee when thou shalt control 
Those passions wild, that stubborn soul. 

That marred thy prosperous scene: — 
Hear this — from no unmoved heart. 
Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART 

With what thou mightst have been ! 

XIX 
Thou too, whose deeds of fame renewed 
Bankrupt a nation's gratitude. 
To thine own noble heart must owe 400 

More than the meed she can bestow. 
For not a people's just acclaim. 
Not the full hail of Europe's fame, 
Thy prince's smiles, thy state's decree, 
The ducal rank, the gartered knee. 
Not these such pure delight afford 
As that, when hanging' up thy sword, 
W^ell mayst thou think, * This honest steel 
Was ever drawn for public weal ; 
And, such was rightful Heaven's de- 
cree, 410 
Ne'er sheathed unless with victory I ' 

XX 

Look forth once more with softened heart 
Ere from the iiohl of fame wo part; 
Triumph and sorrow border near, 
And joy oft melts into a tear. 
Ahis ! what links of love that morn 
Has War's rude hand asunder torn I 
For ne'er was field so sternly fought, 
And ne'er was conquest dearer bought. 



368 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



Here piled in common slaughter sleep 420 

Those whom affection long shall weep: 

Here rests the sire that ne'er shall strain 

His orphans to his heart again; 

The son whom on his native shore 

The parent's voice shall bless no more; 

The bridegroom who has hardly pressed 

His blushing consort to his breast; 

The husband whom through many a year 

Long love and mutual faith endear. 

Thou canst not name one tender tie 430 

But here dissolved its relics lie ! 

O, when thou see'st some mourner's veil 

Shroud her thin form and visage pale, 

Or mark'st the matron's bursting tears 

Stream when the stricken drum she hears, 

Or see'st how manlier grief suppressed 

Is laboring in a father's breast, — 

With no inquiry vain pursue 

The cause, but think on Waterloo ! 

XXI 

Period of honor as of woes, 440 

What bright careers 't was thine to 

close ! — 
Marked on thy roll of blood what names 
To Briton's memory and to Fame's 
Laid there their last immortal claims ! 
Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire 
Redoubted Picton's soul of fire — 
Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie 
All that of PoxsoNBY could die — 
De Lancey change Love's bridal-wreath 
For laurels from the hand of Death — 450 
Saw'st gallant Miller's failing eye 
Still bent where Albion's banners fly, 
And Cameron in the shock of steel 
Die like the offspring of Lochiel; 
And generous Gordon mid the strife 
Fall while he watched his leader's life. — 
Ah ! though her guardian angel's shield 
Fenced Britain's hero through the field, 
Fate not the less her power made known 
Through his friends' hearts to pierce his 

own ! 460 

XXII 

l^'orgive, brave dead, the imperfect lay ! 
Who may your names, your numbers, 

say? 
What high-strung harp, what lofty line. 
To each the dear-earned praise assign, 
From high-born chiefs of martial fame 
To the poor soldier's lowlier name ? 
Lightly ye rose that dawning day 



From your cold couch of swamp and clay, 
To fill before the sun was low 
The bed that morning cannot know. — 470 
Oft may the tear the green sod steep, 
And sacred be the heroes' sleep 

Till time shall cease to run; 
And ne'er beside their noble grave 
May Briton pass and fail to crave 
A blessing on the fallen brave 

Who fought with Wellington ! 

XXIII 

Farewell, sad field ! whose blighted face 
Wears desolation's withering trace; 
Long shall my memory retain 480 

Thy shattered huts and trampled grain, 
With every mark of martial wrong 
That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont ! 
Yet though thy garden's green arcade 
The marksman's fatal post was made. 
Though on thy shattered beeches fell 
The blended rage of shot and shell. 
Though from thy blackened portals torn 
Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn, 
I Has not such havoc bought a name 490 

Immortal in the rolls of fame ? 
Yes — Agincourt may be forgot. 
And Cressy be an unknown spot. 

And Blenheim's name be new; 
But still in story and in song. 
For many an age remembered long, 
Shall live the towers of Hougomont 

And Field of Waterloo. 



CONCLUSION 






Stern tide of human time ! that know'st 

not rest, « 

But, sweeping from the cradle to th^Bj 

tomb, " 

Bear'st ever downward on thy dusky 

breast 
Successive generations to their doom ; 
While thy capacious stream has equal 

room 
For the gay bark where Pleasure's 

streamers sport 
And for the prison-ship of guilt and 

gloom. 
The fisher-skiff and barge that bears a 

court, 
Still wafting onward all to one dark silent 

port ; — 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS: INTRODUCTORY NOTE 369 



Stern tide of time ! through what mys- 
terious change 10 

Of hope and fear have our frail barks 
been driven ! 

For ne'er before vicissitude so strange 

Was to one race of Adam's offspring given. 

And sure such varied change of sea and 
heaven, 

Such unexpected bursts of joy and v7oe, 

Such fearful strife as that where we have 
striven, 

Succeeding ages ne'er again shall know 
Until the awful term when thou shalt cease 
to flow. 

Well hast thou stood, my Country ! — the 
brave fight 

Hast well maintained through good re- 
port and ill; 20 

In thy just cause and in thy native might. 

And in Heaven's grace and justice con- 
stant still; 

Whether the banded prowess, strength, 
and skill ' 

Of half the world against thee stood 
arrayed, 

Or when with better views and freer will 

Beside thee Europe's noblest drew the 
blade, 
Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to 
aid. 

Well art thou now repaid — though 

slowly rose, 
And struggled long with mists thy blaze 

of fame. 
While like the dawn that in the orient 

glows 30 

On the broad wave its earlier lustre 

came; 



Then eastern Egypt saw the growing 
flame. 

And Maida's myrtles gleamed beneath 
its ray. 

Where first the soldier, stung with gener- 
ous shame, 

Rivalled the heroes of the watery way. 
And washed in foemen's gore unjust re- 
proach away. 

Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on 
high. 

And bid the banner of thy Patron flow. 

Gallant Saint George, the flower of chiv- 
alry, 

For thou hast faced like him a dragon 
foe, ^ 40 

And rescued innocence from overthrow, 

And trampled down like him tyrannic 
might. 

And to the gazing world mayst proudly 
show 

The chosen emblem of thy sainted knight. 
Who quelled devouring pride and vindi- 
cated right. 

Yet mid the confidence of just renown. 
Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus 

acquired. 
Write, Britain, write the moral lesson 

down: 
'T is not alone the heart with valor fired, 
The discipline so dreaded and admired. 
In many a field of bloody conquest 

known ; — 51 

Such may by fame be lured, by gold be 

hired — 
'T is constancy in the good cause alone 
Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons 

have won. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 



In the Introduction to The Lord of the Isles^ 
which he prefixed to the I8IK) edition of his 
poems, Scott refers to the mystification \vhich 
he practised on the public by the anonymous 
issue of The Bridal of Triermain^ and the at- 
tempt to father it on Ijord Kiuedder. He 
then says : ' Upon another occasion I sent up 
another of these trifles, whicli, like sclioolboys' 
kites, served to show liow the wind of popnhir 
taste was setting. The manner was sup])08ed 
to be that of a rude minstrel or JScald, in op- 



position to The Bridal of Triermain, which was 
designed to belong ratlier to tht> It^ilian school. 
This new fuj>itive piece was called Harold the 
Dauntless ; and 1 am still jistonished at my 
liaviu^ committed tlio gross error of selecting 
the very name which Lord Byron liad made so 
famous. It encountered rather an odd fate. 
My ingenious friend, ISIr. James Hoj;^;', had 
jniblislied, ahoiit the sanu* i'\uu\ a work called 
The roctic Mirror, containing- imitations of the 
priucipid living poets. There was iu it a very 



370 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



good imitation of my own style, which bore 
such a resemblance to Harold the Dauntless 
that there was no discovering the original from 
the imitation ; and I believe that many who 
took the trouble of thinking upon the subject 
were rather of opinion that my ingenious friend 
was the true, and not the fictitious, Simon 
Pure. Since this period, which was in the year 
1817, the Author has not been an intruder on 
the public by any poetical work of importance.' 
Harold the Dauntless was indeed the last 
poem of any length that Scott wrote. When it 
appeared, in January, 1817, Scott was deep in 
the multitudinous interests which swept him 
away from poetry, — the enlargement of his do- 
main, the writing of the Waverley Novels, con- 
tributions to the Annual Register and the various 
literary enterprises into which he was drawn 
by the Ballantynes. He kept Harold by him, 
after finishing the Bridal^ some two years, 
making a plaything of it, something to take 
up, as Lockhart says, ' whenever the coach 
brought no proof-sheets to jog him as to serious 
matters ; ' and poetry written under such con- 
ditions is hardly likely to repay the writer or 



to treat him otherwise than as a jealous mistress 

treats her lover. 

It was published simply as by ' the author 
of The Bridal of Triermain,^ and no effort 
seems to have been made to turn aside attention 
to Erskine, Gillies, or any one else. Although 
Scott professed in one or two instances an in- 
terest in his work, it is pretty evident that it 
appealed but slightly to his mind, now so ab- 
sorbed in larger ventures. ' I begin,' he wrote 
to Morritt, ' to get too old and stupid, I think, 
for poetry, and will certainly never again ad- 
venture on a grand scale ; ' and the next day he 
wrote to Lady Louisa Stuart : ' I thought once 
I should have made it something clever, but 
it turned vapid upon my imagination ; and I 
finished it at last with hurry and impatience. 
Nobody knows, that has not tried the feverish 
trade of poetry, how much it depends upon 
mood and whim ; I don't wonder, that in dis- 
missing all the other deities of Paganism, the 
Muses should have been retained by common 
consent ; for, in sober reality, writing good 
verses seems to depend upon something sep- 
arate from the volition of the author.' 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



A POEM IN SIX CANTOS 



INTRODUCTION 

There is a mood of mind we all have known 
On drowsy eve or dark and lowering day, 
When the tired spirits lose their sprightly tone 
And nought can chase the lingering hours away. 
Dull on our soul falls Fancy's dazzling ray, 
And Wisdom holds his steadier torch in vain. 
Obscured the painting seems, mistuned the lay, 
Nor dare we of our listless load complain. 
For who for sympathy may seek that cannot tell of pain ? 

The jolly sportsman knows such drearihood 
When bursts in deluge the autumnal rain. 
Clouding that morn which threats the heath-cock's brood; 
Of such in summer's drought the anglers plain. 
Who hope the soft mild southern shower in vain; 
But more than all the discontented fair, 
Whom father stern and sterner aunt restrain 
From county-ball or race occurring rare, 
While all her friends around their vestments gay prepare. 

Ennui ! — or, as our mothers called thee. Spleen ! 
To thee we owe full many a rare device; — 
Thine is the sheaf of painted cards, I ween, 
The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling dice, 
The turning lathe for framing gimcrack nice; 



CANTO FIRST 



371 



The amateur's blotched pallet thou mayst claim, 
Retort, and air-pump, threatening frogs and mice — 
Murders disguised by philosophic name — 
And much of trifling grave and much of buxom game. 

Then of the books to catch thy drowsy glance 
Compiled, what bard the catalogue may quote ! 
Plays, poems, novels, never read but once ; — 
But not of such the tale fair Edgeworth wrote. 
That bears thy name and is thine antidote; 
And not of such the strain my Thomson sung, 
Delicious dreams inspiring by his note, 
What time to Indolence his harp he strung; — 
O, might my lay be ranked that happier list among ! 

Each hath his refuge whom thy cares assail. 
For me, I love my study-fire to trim, 
And con right vacantly some idle tale, 
Displaying on the couch each listless limb. 
Till on the drowsy page the lights grow dim 
And doubtful slumber half supplies the theme; 
While antique shapes of knight and giant grim. 
Damsel and dwarf, in long procession gleam. 
And the romancer's tale becomes the reader's dream. 

'T is thus my malady I well may bear. 
Albeit outstretched, like Pope's own Paridel, 
Upon the rack of a too-easy chair; 
And find to cheat the time a powerful spell 
In old romaunts of errantry that tell, 
Or later legends of the Fairy-folk, 
Or Oriental tale of Afrite fell, 
Of Genii, Talisman, and broad-winged Roc, 
Though taste may blush and frown, and sober reason mock. 

Oft at such season too will rhymes unsought 
Arrange themselves in some romantic lay, 
The which, as things unfitting graver thought, 
Are burnt or blotted on some wiser day. — 
These few survive — and, proudly let me say, 
Court not the critic's smile nor dread his frown; 
They well may serve to while an hour away. 
Nor does the volume ask for more renown 
Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time she drops it down. 



CANTO FIRST 

I 

List to the valorous deeds that were done 
By Harold the Dauntless, Count Witikiud's 
son I 

Count Witikind came of a regal strain, 
And roved with his Norsemen the laud and 
the main. 



Woe to the realms which he coasted I for 

there 
Was shedding of blood and rending of hair, 
Rape of niiiidon and slaughter of priest, 
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast: 
When he hoisted his standard black, 
B(^fore him was battle, behind him wrack, 10 
And he burned the churches, that heathen 

Dane, 
To light his baud to their baxks again. 



372 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



On Erin's shores was his outrage known, 
The winds of France had his banners blown; 
Little was there to plunder, yet still 
His pirates had forayed on Scottish hill: 
But upon merry England's coast 
More frequent he sailed, for he won the 

most. 
So wide and so far his ravage they knew, 
If a sail but gleamed white 'gainst the 

welkin blue, 20 

Trumpet and bugle to arms did call. 
Burghers hastened to man the wall. 
Peasants fled inland his fury to 'scape. 
Beacons were lighted on headland and cape. 
Bells were tolled out, and aye as they rung 
Fearful and faintly tlae gray brothers sung, 
< Bless us, Saint Mary, from flood and from 

fire. 
From famine and pest, and Count Witi- 

kind's ire I ' 

III 

He liked the wealth of fair England so well 

That he sought in her bosom as native to 
dwell. 30 

He entered the Humber in fearful hour 

And disembarked with his Danish power. 

Three earls came against him with all their 
train, — 

Two hath he taken and one hath he slain. 

Count Witikind left the Humber's rich 
strand. 

And he wasted and warred in Northumber- 
land. 

But the Saxon king was a sire in age, 

Weak in battle, in council sage; 

Peace of that heathen leader he sought. 

Gifts he gave and quiet he bought; 40 

And the count took upon him the peace- 
able style 

Of a vassal and liegeman of Briton's broad 
isle. 

IV 

Time will rust the sharpest sword. 
Time will consume the strongest cord; 
That which moulders hemp and steel 
Mortal arm and nerve must feel. 
Of the Danish band whom Count Witikind 

led 
Many waxed aged and many were dead: 
Himself found his armor full weighty to 

bear, 49 

Wrinkled his brows grew and hoary his hair ; 



He leaned on a staff when his step went 

abroad. 
And patient his palfrey when steed he be- 
strode. 
As he grew feebler, his wildness ceased. 
He made himself peace with prelate and 

priest. 
Made his peace, and stooping his head 
Patiently listed the counsel they said: 
Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy and 

grave. 
Wise and good was the counsel he gave. 



* Thou hast murdered, robbed, and spoiled, 
Time it is thy poor soul were assoiled; 60 
Priests didst thou slay and churches burn. 
Time it is now to repentance to turn; 
Fiends hast thou worshipped with fiendish 

rite. 
Leave now the darkness and wend into light; 
O, while life and space are given, 
Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven ! ' 
That stern old heathen his head he raised, 
And on the good prelate he steadfastly 

gazed ; 
<Give me broad lands on the Wear and 

the Tyne, 
My faith I will leave and I '11 cleave unto 

thine.' 70 

VI 

Broad lands he gave him on Tyne and 

Wear, 
To be held of the church by bridle and spear, 
Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tynedale part, 
To better his will and to soften his heart: 
Count Witikind was a joyful man, 
Less for the faith than the lands that he wan. 
The high church of Durham is dressed for 

the day, 
The clergy are ranked in their solemn array: 
There came the count, in a bear-skin warm, 
Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm. 80 
He kneeled before Saint Cuthbert's shrine 
With patience unwonted at rites divine; 
He abjured the gods of heathen race 
And he bent his head at the font of grace. 
But such was the grisly old proselyte's look, 
That the priest who baptized him grew 

pale and shook; 
And the old monks muttered beneath their 

hood, 

* Of a stem so stubborn can never spring 

good ! ' 



CANTO FIRST 



373 



VII 

Up then arose that grim convertite, 89 

Homeward he hied him when ended the rite ; 
The prelate in honor will with him ride 
And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side. 
Banners and banderols danced in the wind, 
Monks rode before them and spearmen 

behind; 
Onward they passed, till fairly did shine 
J Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne ; 
And full in front did that fortress lour 
In darksome strength with its buttress and 

tower: 
At the castle gate was young Harold 

there, 
' Count Witikind's only offspring and heir. 

VIII 

Young Harold was feared for his hardi- 
hood, lOI 

His strength of frame and his fury of mood. 

Rude he was and wild to behold, 

Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold, 

Cap of vair nor rich array. 

Such as should grace that festal day: 

His doublet of bull's hide was all un- 
braced. 

Uncovered his head and his sandal un- 
laced: 

His shaggy black locks on his brow hung 
low. 

And his eyes glanced through them a 
swarthy glow; no 

A Danish club in his hand he bore, 

The spikes were clotted with recent gore; 

At his back a she-wolf and her wolf-cubs 
twain. 

In the dangerous chase that morning slain. 

Rude was the greeting his father he made, 

None to the bLshop, — while thus he 
said: — 

IX 

' What priest-led hypocrite art thou 
With thy humbled look and thy monkish 

brow. 
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his 

vow ? 
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster 

known, 120 

Royal Eric's fearless son. 
Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord. 
Who won his bride by the axe and sword; 
From the shrine of Saint Peter the chalice 

who tore, 



And melted to bracelets for Freya and 

Thor; 
With one blow of his gauntlet who burst 

the skull, 
Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain 

Bull? 
Then ye worshipped with rites that to war- 
gods belong, 
With the deed of the brave and the blow 

of the strong; 
And now, in thine age to dotage sunk, 130 
Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven 

monk. 
Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of 

hair, — 
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou 

bear ? 
Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower 
To batten with priest and with paramour ? 
O, out upon thine endless shame ! 
Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy 

fame, 
And thy son will refuse thee a father's 

name ! ' 



Ireful waxed old Witikind's look, 

His faltering voice with fury shook: — 140 

* Hear me, Harold of hardened heart ! 
Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert. 
Thine outrage insane I command thee to 

cease. 
Fear my wrath and remain at peace : — 
Just is the debt of repentance I 've paid. 
Richly the church has a recompense made, 
And the truth of her doctrines I prove 

with my blade. 
But reckoning to none of my actions I owe, 
And least to my son such accounting will 

show. 
Why speak I to thee of repentance or 
truth, 150 

Who ne'er from thy childhood knew rea- 
son or ruth ? 
Hence ! to the wolf and the bear in her den ; 
These are thy mates, and not rational men.' 

XI 

Grimly smiled Harold and coldly replied, 

* We must honor our sires, if we fear when 

they chide. 
For me, I am yet what thy lessons have 

made, 
I was rocked in a buckler and fed from a 

blade ; 



374 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



An infant, was taught to clasp hands and 

to shout 
From the roofs of the tower when the flame 

had broke out; 
In the blood of slain foemen my finger to 

dip, 160 

And tinge with its purple my cheek and my 

lip.- 

'T is thou know'st not truth, that hast bar- 
tered in eld 

For a price the brave faith that thine an- 
cestors held. 

When this wolf ' — and the carcass he flung 
on the plain — 

* Shall awake and give food to her nurslings 

again, 
The face of his father will Harold review; 
Till then, aged heathen, young Christian, 

adieu 1 ' 

XII 

Priest, monk, and prelate stood aghast. 
As through the pageant the heathen passed. 
A cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung, 170 
Laid his hand on the pommel and into it 

sprung. 
Loud was the shriek and deep the groan 
When the holy sign on the earth was 

thrown ! 
The fierce old count unsheathed his brand, 
But the calmer prelate stayed his hand. 

* Let him pass free ! — Heaven knows its 

hour, — 
But he must own repentance's power. 
Pray and weep, and penance bear, 
Ere he hold land by the Tyne and the 

Wear.' 
Thus in scorn and in wrath from his father 

is gone 180 

Young Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 

kind's son. 

XIII 
High was the feasting in Witikind's hall. 
Revelled priests, soldiers, and pagans, and 

all; 
And e'en the good bishop was fain to endure 
The scandal which time and instruction 

might cure: 
It were dangerous, he deemed, at the first 

to restrain 
In his wine and his wassail a half-christened 

Dane. 
The mead flowed around and the ale was 

drained dry, 



Wild was the laughter, the song, and the 

cry; 
With Kyrie Eleison came clamorously in 190 
The war-songs of Danesmen, Norweyan, 

and Finn, 
Till man after man the contention gave 

o'er. 
Outstretched on the rushes that strewed 

the hall floor; 
And the tempest within, having ceased its 

wild rout, 
Gave place to the tempest that thundered 

without. 

XIV 

Apart from the wassail in turret alone 
Lay flaxen-haired Gunnar, old Ermengarde's 

son; 
In the train of Lord Harold that page was 

the first. 
For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde 

nursed; 
And grieved was young Gunnar his master 

should roam, 200 

Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from 

home. 
He heard the deep thunder, the plashing of 

rain. 
He saw the red lightning through shot-hole 

and pane; 

* And O ! ' said the page, ' on the shelterless 

wold 
Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and 

cold! 
What though he was stubborn and wayward 

and wild. 
He endured me because I was Ermen- 
garde's child. 
And often from dawn till the set of the sun 
In the chase by his stirrup unbidden I run; 
I would I were older, and knighthood could 

bear, 210 

I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne 

and the Wear: 
For my mother's command with her last 

parting breath 
Bade me follow her nursling in life and to 

death. 

XV 

* It pours and it thunders, it lightens amain, 
As if Lok the Destroyer had burst from 

his chain ! 
Accursed by the church and expelled by 
his sire, 



CANTO FIRST 



375 



Nor Christian nor Dane give him shelter 

or fire, 
And this tempest what mortal may house- 
less endure ? 
Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor ! 
Whatever comes of Gunnar, he tarries not 

here/ 220 

He leapt from his couch and he grasped to 

his spear, 
Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturbed 

by his tread, 
The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of 

the dead: 
- Ungrateful and bestial ! ' his anger broke 

forth, 
' To forget mid your goblets the pride of 

the North ! 
And you, ye cowled priests who have plenty 

in store. 
Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey and 

ore.' 

XVI 

Then, heeding full little of ban or of curse. 
He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaux's 

purse: 
Saint Meneholt's Abbot next morning has 

missed 230 

His mantle, deep furred from the cape to 

the wrist: 
The seneschal's keys from his belt he has 

ta'en — 
Well drenched on that eve was old Hilde- 

brand's brain — 
To the stable-yard he made his way 
And mounted the bishop's palfrey gay. 
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast 
And right on his way to the moorland has 

passed. 
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to face 
A weather so wild at so rash a pace; 
So long he snorted, so long he neighed, 240 
There answered a steed that was bound 

beside, 
And the red flash of lightning showed there 

where lay 
His master. Lord Harold, outstretched on 

the clay. 

XVII 

Up he started and thundered out, * Stand ! ' 
And raised the club in his deadly hand. 
The flaxen-haired Gunnar liis ])urpose told, 
Showed the palfrey and proil'ered the gohl. 
* Back, back, and home, thou simple boy ! 



Thou canst not share my grief or joy: 
Have I not marked thee wail and cry 250 
When thou hast seen a sparrow die ? 
And canst thou, as my follower should. 
Wade ankle-deep through foeman's blood, 
Dare mortal and immortal foe. 
The gods above, the fiends below. 
And man on earth, more hateful still, 
The very fountain-head of ill ? 
Desperate of life and careless of death. 
Lover of bloodshed and slaughter and 

scathe. 
Such must thou be with me to roam, 260 
And such thou canst not be — back, and 

home ! ' 

XVIII 

Young Gunnar shook like an aspen bough. 
As he heard the harsh voice and beheld 

the dark brow. 
And half he repented his purpose and vow. 
But now to draw back were bootless shame. 
And he loved his master, so urged his 

claim : 

* Alas ! if my arm and my courage be 

weak. 
Bear with me awhile for old Ermengarde's 

sake; 
Nor deem so lightly of Gunnar's faith 
As to fear he would break it for peril of 

death. 270 

Have I not risked it to fetch thee this 

gold. 
This surcoat and mantle to fence thee from 

cold? 
And, did I bear a baser mind, 
What lot remains if I stay behind ? 
The priests' revenge, thy father's wrath, 
A dungeon, and a shameful death.' 

XIX 

With gentler look Lord Harold eyed 
The page, then turned his head aside; 
And either a tear did his eyelash stain, 
Or it caught a drop of the passing rain. 280 

* Art thou an outcast, then ? ' quoth he; 

* The meeter page to foHow me.' 

'T were bootless to tell what climes they 

sought, 
Ventures acliieved, and battles fought; 
How oft with few, how oft aU^no, 
Fierce Harold's arm the iicUi hath won. 
Men swore his ey(\ that Hashed so red 
When each other glance was quenched with 

dread, 



376 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



Bore oft a light of deadly flame 
That ne'er from mortal courage came. 290 
Those limbs so strong, that mood so stern, 
That loved the couch of heath and fern, 
Afar from hamlet, tower, and town, 
More than to rest on driven down; 
That stubborn frame, that sullen mood. 
Men deemed must come of aught but good; 
And they whispered the great Master Fiend 

was at one 
With Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 

kind's son. 

XX 

Years after years had gone and fled. 

The good old prelate lies lapped in lead ; 300 

In the chapel still is shown 

His sculptured form on a marble stone, 

With staff and ring and scapulaire. 

And folded hands in the act of prayer. 

Saint Cuthbert's mitre is resting now 

On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's 

brow; 
The power of his crosier he loved to ex- 
tend 
O'er whatever would break or whatever 

would bend ; 
And now hath he clothed him in cope and 

in pall. 
And the Chapter of Durham has met at his 
call. 3 10 

* And hear ye not, brethren,' the proud 

bishop said, 

* That our vassal, the Danish Count Witi- 

kind 's dead ? 
All his gold and his goods hath he given 
To holy Church for the love of Heaven, 
And hath founded a chantry with stipend 

and dole 
That priests and that beadsmen may pray 

for his soul: 
Harold his son is wandering abroad, 
Dreaded by man and abhorred by God; 
Meet it is not that such should heir 
The lands of the Church on the Tyne and 

the Wear, 320 

And at her pleasure her hallowed hands 
May now resume these wealthy lands.' 

XXI 

Answered good Eustace, a canon old, — 

* Harold is tameless and furious and bold; 
Ever Renown blows a note of fame 

And a note of fear when she sounds his 
name: 



Much of bloodshed and much of scathe 
Have been their lot who have waked his 

wrath. 
Leave him these lands and lordships still. 
Heaven in its hour may change his will; 330 
But if reft of gold and of living bare, 
An evil counsellor is despair.' 
More had he said, but the prelate frowned, 
And murmured his brethren who sate 

around. 
And with one consent have they given their 

doom 
That the Church should the lands of Saint 

Cuthbert resume. 
So willed the prelate ; and canon and dean 
Gave to his judgment their loud amen. 



CANTO SECOND 



'T IS merry in greenwood — thus runs the 

old lay — 
In the gladsome month of lively May, 
When the wild birds' song on stem and 

spray 
Invites to forest bower; 
Then rears the ash his airy crest. 
Then shines the birch in silver vest. 
And the beech in glistening leaves is drest, 
And dark between shows the oak's proud 

breast 
Like a chieftain's frowning tower; 
Though a thousand branches join their 

screen, lo 

Yet the broken sunbeams glance between 
And tip the leaves with lighter green, 

With brighter tints the flower: <«! 

Dull is the heart that loves not then jHI 
The deep recess of the wildwood glen, 
Where roe and red-deer find sheltering den 
When the sun is in his power. 



Less merry perchance is the fading leaf 
That follows so soon on the gathered sheaf 
When the greenwood loses the name; 20 
Silent is then the forest bound. 
Save the redbreast's note and the rustling 

sound 
Of frost - nipt leaves that are dropping 

round. 
Or the deep-mouthed cry of the distant 
hound 
That opens on his game: 



CANTO SECOND 



377 



Yet then too I love the forest wide, 

Whether the sun in splendor ride 

And gild its many-colored side, 

Or whether the soft and silvery haze 29 

In vapory folds o'er the landscape strays. 

And half involves the woodland maze, 

Like an early widow's veil. 
Where wimpling tissue from the gaze 
The form half hides and half betrays 

Of beauty wan and pale. 

Ill 

Fair Metelill was a woodland maid. 
Her father a rover of greenwood shade, 
By forest statutes undismayed. 

Who lived by bow and quiver; 
Well known was Wulfstane's archery 40 
By merry Tyne both on moor and lea, 
Through wooded Weardale's glens so free, 
Well beside Stanhope's wildwood tree. 

And well on Ganlesse river. 
Yet free though he trespassed on wood- 
land game. 
More known and more feared was the wiz- 
ard fame 
Of Jutta of Rookhope, the Outlaw's dame; 
Feared when she frowned was her eye of 
flame, 

More feared when in wrath she laughed ; 
For then, 't was said, more fatal true 50 
To its dread aim her spell-glance flew 
Than when from Wulfstane's bended yew 

Sprung forth the gray-goose shaft. 

IV 

Yet had this fierce and dreaded pair. 
So Heaven decreed, a daughter fair; 

None brighter crowned the bed. 
In Britain's bounds, of peer or prince. 
Nor hath perchance a lovelier since 

In this fair isle been bred. 
And nought of fraud or ire or ill 60 

Was known to gentle Metelill, — 

A simple maiden she; 
The spells in dimpled smile that lie. 
And a downcast blush, and the darts that 

fly 

With the sidelong glance of a hazel eye, 

Were her arms and witchery. 
So young, so simple was slie yet. 
She scarce could childhood's joys forget. 
And still she loved, in secret set 

Beneath the greenwood tree, 70 

To plait the rushy coronet 



And braid with flowers her locks of jet, 

As when in infancy ; — 
Yet could that heart so simple prove 
The early dawn of stealing love: 

Ah ! gentle maid, beware ! 
The power who, now so mild a guest, 
Gives dangerous yet delicious zest 
To the calm pleasures of thy breast, 
Will soon, a tyrant o'er the rest, 80 

Let none his empire share. 



One morn in kirtle green arrayed 
Deep in the wood the maiden strayed. 

And where a fountain sprung 
She sate her down unseen to thread 
The scarlet berry's mimic braid. 

And while the beads she strung. 
Like the blithe lark whose carol gay 
Gives a good-morrow to the day. 

So lightsomely she sung. 90 



VI 



SONG 

* Lord William was born in gilded bower, 
The heir of Wilton's lofty tower; 

Yet better loves Lord William now 
To roam beneath wild Rookhope's brow; 
And William has lived where ladies fair 
With gawds and jewels deck their hair. 
Yet better loves the dew-drops still 
That pearl the locks of Metelill. 

* The pious palmer loves, iwis, 99 
Saint Cuthbert's hallowed beads to kiss; 
But I, though simple girl I be, 

Might have such homage paid to me; 
For did Lord William see me suit 
This necklace of the bramble's fruit, 
He fain — but must not have his will — 
Would kiss the beads of Metelill. 

* My nurse has told me many a talc, 
How vows of love are weak and frail; 
My mother says that courtly youth 

By rustic maid means seldom sooth. 1 10 
What should they moan ? it cannot be 
That such a warning 's meant for mo. 
For nought — O, nought of fraud or ill 
Can William mean to Metelill I ' 

VII 
Sudden she stops — and starts to feel 
A weighty hand, a glove of steel, 



373 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



Upon her shrinking shoulders laid; 
Fearful she turned, and saw dismayed 
A knight in plate and mail arrayed, 
His crest and bearing worn and frayed, 120 

His surcoat soiled and riven. 
Formed like that giant race of yore 
Whose long-continued crimes outwore 

The sufferance of Heaven. 
Stern accents made his pleasure known, 
Though then he used his gentlest tone: 

* Maiden,' he said, * sing forth thy glee. 
Start not — sing on — it pleases me.' 

VIII 

Secured within his powerful hold. 

To bend her knee, her hands to fold, 130 

Was all the maiden might; 
And * O, forgive,' she faintly said, 

* The terrors of a simple maid. 

If thou art mortal wight ! 
But if — of such strange tales are told — 
Unearthly warrior of the wold, 
Thou comest to chide mine accents bold. 
My mother, Jutta, knows the spell 
At noon and midnight pleasing well 

The disembodied ear; 140 

O, let her powerful charms atone 
For aught my rashness may have done. 

And cease thy grasp of fear.' 
Then laughed the knight — his laughter's 

sound 
Half in the hollow helmet drowned; 
His barred visor then he raised. 
And steady on the maiden gazed. 
He smoothed his brows, as best he might. 
To the dread calm of autumn night. 

When sinks the tempest roar, 150 

Yet still the cautious fishers eye 
The clouds and fear the gloomy sky. 

And haul their barks on shore. 

IX 

' Damsel,' he said, * be wise, and learn 
Matters of weight and deep concern: 

From distant realms I come, 
And wanderer long at length have planned 
In this my native Northern land 

To seek myself a home. 
Nor that alone — a mate I seek ; 160 

She must be gentle, soft, and meek, — 

No lordly dame for me ; 
Myself am something rough of mood 
And feel the fire of royal blood. 
And therefore do not hold, it good 



To match in my degree. 
Then, since coy maidens say my face 
Is harsh, my form devoid of grace, 
For a fair lineage to provide 
'T is meet that my selected bride 170 

In lineaments be fair; 
I love thine well — till now I ne'er 
Looked patient on a face of fear. 
But now that tremulous sob and tear 

Become thy beauty rare. 
One kiss — nay, damsel, coy it not ! — 
And now go seek thy parents' cot. 
And say a bridegroom soon I come 
To woo my love and bear her home.' 



Home sprung the maid without a pause, 180 
As leveret 'scaped from greyhound's jaws; 
But still she locked, howe'er distressed, 
The secret in her boding breast; 
Dreading her sire, who oft forbade 
Her steps should stray to distant glade. 
Night came — to her accustomed nook 
Her distaff aged Jutta took. 
And by the lamp's imperfect glow 
Bough Wulfstane trimmed his shafts and 

bow. 
Sudden and clamorous from the ground 190 
Upstarted slumbering brach and hound; 
Loud knocking next the lodge alarms 
And Wulfstane snatches at his arms, 
When open flew the yielding door 
And that grim warrior pressed the floor. 

XI 

* All peace be here — What ! none replies ? 

Dismiss your fears and your surprise. 

'T is I — that maid hath told my tale, — 

Or, trembler, did thy courage fail ? 

It recks not — it is I demand 200 

Fair Metelill in marriage band; 

Harold the Dauntless I, whose name 

Is brave men's boast and caitiff's shame.' 

The parents sought each other's eyes 

With awe, resentment, and surprise: 

Wulfstane, to quarrel prompt, began 

The stranger's size and thews to scan; 

But as he scanned his courage sunk. 

And from unequal strife he shrunk, 

Then forth to blight and blemish flies 210 

The harmful curse from Jutta's eyes; 

Yet, fatal howsoe'er, the spell 

On Harold innocently fell ! 

And disappointment and amaze 

Were in the witch's wildered gaze. 



CANTO SECOND 



379 



XII 

But soon the wit of woman woke, 
And to the warrior mild she spoke : 

* Her child was all too young.' — * A toy, 
The refuge of a maiden coy.' 

Again, * A powerful baron's heir 220 

Claims in her heart an interest fair.' 
' A trifle — whisper in his ear 
That Harold is a suitor here ! ' — 
Baffled at length she sought delay: 

* Would not the knight till morning stay ? 
Late was the hour — he there might rest 
Till morn, their lodge's honored guest.' 
Such were her words — her craft might 

cast 
Her honored guest should sleep his last: 

* No, not to-night — but soon,' he swore, 230 

* He would return, nor leave them more.' 
The threshold then his huge stride crost, 
And soon he was in darkness lost. 

XIII 

Appalled awhile the parents stood, 
Then changed their fear to angry mood, 
And foremost fell their words of ill 
On unresisting Metelill: 
Was she not cautioned and forbid, 
Forewarned, implored, accused, and chid. 
And must she still to greenwood roam 240 
To marshal such misfortune home ? 

* Hence, minion — to thy chamber hence — 
There prudence learn and penitence.' 

She went — her lonely couch to steep 
In tears which absent lovers weep; 
Or if she gained a troubled sleep. 
Fierce Harold's suit was still the theme 
And terror of her feverish dream. 

XIV 

Scarce was she gone, her dame and sire 
Upon each other bent their ire; 250 

* A woodsman thou and hast a spear. 
And couldst thou such an insult bear ? ' 
Sullen he said, * A man contends 

With men, a witch with sprites and fiends; 
Not to mere mortal wight belong 
Yon gloomy brow and frame so strong. 
But thou — is this thy promise fair. 
That your Lord William, wealthy heir 
To Ulrick, Baron of Witton-le-Wear, 
Should Metelill to altar bear ? 260 

Do all the spells thou boast'st as thine 
Serve but to slay some peasant's kine. 
His grain in autumn's storms to steep. 
Or thorough fog and fen to sweep 



And hag-ride some poor rustic's sleep ? 

Is such mean mischief worth the fame 

Of sorceress and witch's name ? 

Fame, which with all men's wish conspires, 

With thy deserts and my desires. 

To damn thy corpse to penal fires ? 270 

Out on thee, witch ! aroint ! aroint ! 

What now shall put thy schemes in joint ? 

What save this trusty arrow's point. 

From the dark dingle when it flies 

And he who meets it gasps and dies ? ' 

XV 

Stern she replied, ' I will not wage 

War with thy folly or thy rage ; 

But ere the morrow's sun be low, 

Wulfstane of Rookhope, thou shalt know 

If I can venge me on a foe. 280 

Believe the while that whatso'er 

I spoke in ire of bow and spear, 

It is not Harold's destiny 

The death of pilfered deer to die. 

But he, and thou, and yon pale moon — 

That shall be yet more pallid soon, 

Before she sink behind the dell — 

Thou, she, and Harold too, shall tell 

What Jutta knows of charm or spell.' 

Thus muttering, to the door she bent 290 

Her wayward steps and forth she went, 

And left alone the moody sire 

To cherish or to slake his ire. 

/ XVI 

Far faster than belonged to age 
Has Jutta made her pilgrimage. 
A priest has met her as she passed, 
And crossed himself and stood aghast: 
She traced a hamlet — not a cur 
His throat would ope, his foot would stir; 
By crouch, by trembling, and by groan, 300 
They made her hated presence known ! 
But when she trode the sable fell, 
Were wilder sounds her way to tell, — 
For far was heard the fox's yell, 
The black-cock waked and faintly crew, 
Screamed o'er the moss the scared curlew; 
Where o'er the cataract tlie oak 
Lay slant, was heard the raven's croak; 
The mountain-cat which sought his prey 
Glared, screamed, and started from her 
way. 3 10 

Such music cheered her journey lone 
To the deep dell and rocking stone: 
There with unhallowed hymn of praise 
She called a god of heathen days. 



38o 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



XVII 



INVOCATION 



* From thy Pomeranian throne, 
Hewn in rock of living stone, 
Where, to thy godhead faithful yet, 
Bend Esthonian, Finn, and L^tt, 
And their swords in vengeance whet, 
That shall make thine altars wet, 320 
Wet and red for ages more 

With the Christian's hated gore, — 
Hear me. Sovereign of the Rock ! 
Hear me, mighty Zernebock ! 

* Mightiest of the mighty known. 
Here thy wonders have been shown; 
Hundred tribes in various tongue 
Oft have here thy praises sung; 
Down that stone with Kunic seamed 
Hundred victims' blood hath streamed ! 330 
Now one woman comes alone 

And but wets it with her own. 

The last, the feeblest of thy flock, — 

Hear — and be present, Zernebock ! 



* Hark ! he comes ! the night-blast cold 
Wilder sweeps along the wold; 
The cloudless moon grows dark and dim, 
And bristling hair and quaking limb 
Proclaim the Master Demon nigh, — 
Those who view his form shall die ! 
Lo ! I stoop and veil my head; 
Thou who ridest the tempest dread, 
Shaking hill and rending oak — 
Spare me ! spare me, Zernebock ! 



340 



* He comes not yet ! Shall cold delay 
Thy votaress at her need repay ? 

Thou — shall I call thee god or fiend ? — 
Let others on thy mood attend 
With prayer and ritual — Jutta's arms 
Are necromantic words and charms; 350 
Mine is the spell that uttered once 
Shall wake thy Master from his trance. 
Shake his red mansion-house of pain 
And burst his seven - times - twisted 

chain 1 — 
So ! com'st thou ere the spell is spoke ? 
I own thy presence, Zernebock.' — 

XVIII 

* Daughter of dust,' the Deep Voice 

said — 
Shook while it spoke the vale for dread, 
Rocked on the base that massive stone, 



The Evil Deity to own, — 360 

* Daughter of dust ! not mine the power 
Thou seek'st on Harold's fatal hour. 
'Twixt heaven and hell there is a strife 
Waged for his soul and for his life, 
And fain would we the combat win 
And snatch him in his hour of sin. 
There is a star now rising red 

That threats him with an influence dread; 

Woman, thine arts of malice whet, 

To use the space before it set. 370 

Involve him with the church in strife, 

Push on adventurous chance his life; 

Ourself will in the hour of need, 

As best we may, thy counsels speed.' 

So ceased the Voice; for seven leagues 

round 
Each hamlet started at the sound, 
But slept again as slowly died 
Its thunders on the hill's brown side. 

XIX 

* And is this all,' said Jutta stern, 

* That thou canst teach and I can learn ? 380 
Hence ! to the land of fog and waste, 
There fittest is thine influence placed, 
Thou powerless, sluggish Deity ! 

But ne'er shall Briton bend the knee 
Again before so poor a god.' 
She struck the altar with her rod; 
Slight was the touch as when at need 
A damsel stirs her tardy steed; 
But to the blow the stone gave place, 
And, starting from its balanced base, 39a 
Rolled thundering down the moonlight 

dell, — 
Re-echoed moorland, rock, and fell; 
Into the moonlight tarn it dashed. 
Their shores the sounding surges lashed. 

And there was ripple, rage, and foam; 
But on that lake, so dark and lone. 
Placid and pale the moonbeam shone 

As Jutta hied her home. 



CANTO THIRD 



Gray towers of Durham ! there was 

once a time 
I viewed your battlements with such 

vague hope 
As brightens life in its first dawning 

prime ; 



CANTO THIRD 



381 



Not that e'en then came within fancy's 
scope 

A vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope ; 

Yet, gazing on the venerable hall, 

Her flattering dreams would in perspec- 
tive ope 

Some reverend room, some prebendary's 
stall, — 
And thus Hope me deceived as she de- 
ceiveth all. 

Well yet I love thy mixed and massive 

piles, 10 

Half church of God, half castle 'gainst 

the Scot, 
And long to roam these venerable aisles. 
With records stored of deeds long since 

forgot; 
There might I share my Surtees' happier 

lot. 
Who leaves at will his patrimonial field 
To ransack every crypt and hallowed 

spot, 
And from oblivion rend the spoils they 

yield, 
Restoring priestly chant and clang of 

knightly shield. 

Vain is the wish — since other cares de- 
mand 

Each vacant hour, and in another 
clime ; 20 

But still that northern harp invites my 
hand 

Which tells the wonder of thine earlier 
time; 

And fain its numbers would I now com- 
mand 

To paint the beauties of that dawning 
fair 

When Harold, gazing from its lofty 
stand 

Upon the western heights of Beaure- 
paire. 
Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by 
winding Wear. 

II 

Fair on the half-seen streams the sun- 
beams danced, 

Betraying it beneath the woodland bank, 

And fair between the Gothic turrets 
glanced 30 

Broad lights, and shadows fell on front 
and flank^ 



Where tower and buttress rose in mar- 
tial rank. 

And girdled in the massive donjon keep, 

And from their circuit pealed o'er bush 
and bank 

The matin bell with summons long and 
deep. 
And echo answered still with long-resound- 
ing sweep. 

Ill 
The morning mists rose from the ground, 
Each merry bird awakened round 

As if in revelry; 
Afar the bugle's clanging sound 40 

Called to the chase the lagging hound; 

The gale breathed soft and free, 
And seemed to linger on its way 
To catch fresh odors from the spray, 
And waved it in its wanton play 

So light and gamesomely. 
The scenes which morning beams reveal, 
Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel 
In all their fragrance round him steal, 
It melted Harold's heart of steel, 50 

And, hardly wotting why. 
He doffed his helmet's gloomy pride 
And hung it on a tree beside. 

Laid mace and falchion by. 
And on the greensward sate him down 
And from his dark habitual frown 

Relaxed his rugged brow — 
Whoever hath the doubtful task 
From that stern Dane a boon to ask 

Were wise to ask it now. 60 

IV 

His place beside young Gunnar took 
And marked his master's softening look, 
And in his eye's dark mirror spied 
The gloom of stormy thoughts subside. 
And cautious watched the fittest tide 

To speak a warning word. 
So when the torrent's billows shrink, 
The timid pilgrim on the brink 
Waits long to see them wave and sink 

Ere he dare brave the ford, 70 

And often after doubtful pause 
His step advances or withdraws; 
Fearful to move the slumbering ire 
Of his stern lord, thus stood the squire 

Till Harold raised his eye, 
That glanced as when athwart the shroud 
Of the dispersing tempest-cloud 

The bursting sunbeams fly. 



382 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



' Arouse thee, son of Ermengarde, 
Offspring of prophetess and bard ! 80 

Take harp and greet this lovely prime 
With some high strain of Runic rhyme, 
Strong, deep, and powerful ! Peal it round 
Like that loud bell's sonorous sound, 
Yet wild by fits, as when the lay 
Of bird and bugle hail the day. 
Such was my grandsire Eric's sport 
When dawn gleamed on his martial court. 
Heymar the Scald with harp's high sound 
Summoned the chiefs who slept around; 90 
Couched on the spoils of wolf and bear, 
They roused like lions from their lair. 
Then rushed in emulation forth 
To enhance the glories of the north. — 
Proud Eric, mightiest of thy race. 
Where is thy shadowy resting-place ? 
In wild Valhalla hast thou quaffed 
From foeman's skull metheglin draught. 
Or wanderest where thy cairn was piled 
To frown o'er oceans wide and wild ? 100 
Or have the milder Christians given 
Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven ? 
Where'er thou art, to thee are kno^vn 
Our toils endured, our trophies won, 
Our wars, our wanderings, and our woes.' 
He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose. 



VI 



* Hawk and osprey screamed for joy 
O'er the beetling cliffs of Hoy, 
Crimson foam the beach o'erspread. 
The heath was dyed with darker red, i 
When o'er Eric, Inguar's son, 

Dane and Northman piled the stone, 
Singing wild the war-song stern, 
" Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! " 

* Where eddying currents foam and boil 
By Bersa's burgh and Grjemsay's isle. 
The seaman sees a martial form 
Half-mingled with the mist and storm. 
In anxious awe he bears away 

To moor his bark in Stromna's bay, i 
And murmurs from the bounding stern, 
" Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! " 

* What cares disturb the mighty dead ? 
Each honored rite was duly paid; 

No daring hand thy helm unlaced, 



140 



Thy sword, thy shield, were near thee 

placed; 
Thy flinty couch no tear profaned: 
Without, with hostile blood 't was stained ; 
Within, 't was lined with moss and fern, — 
Then rest thee. Dweller of the Cairn ! 130 

* He may not rest: from realms afar 
Comes voice of battle and of war, 

Of conquest wrought with bloody hand 
On Carmel's cliffs and Jordan's strand. 
When Odin's warlike son could daunt 
The turbaned race of Termagaunt.' 

VII 

* Peace,' said the knight, * the noble Scald 
Our warlike fathers' deeds recalled, 

But never strove to soothe the son 
With tales of what himself had done. 
At Odin's board the bard sits high 
Whose harp ne'er stooped to flattery. 
But highest he whose daring lay 
Hath dared unwelcome truths to say.' 
With doubtful smile young Gunnar eyed 
His master's looks and nought replied — 
But well that smile his master led 
To construe what he left unsaid. 

* Is it to me, thou timid youth, 149 
Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome truth ! 
My soul no more thy censure grieves 
Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves. 
Say on — and yet — beware the rude 
And wild distemper of my blood; 

Loath were I that mine ire should wrong 
The youth that bore my shield so long. 
And who, in service constant still. 
Though weak in frame, art strong in 
will.' — 

* ! ' quoth the page, * even there de- 

pends 159 

My counsel — there my warning tends — 
Oft seems as of my master's breast 
Some demon were the sudden guest; 
Then at the first misconstrued word 
His hand is on the mace and sword. 
From her firm seat his wisdom driven, 
His life to countless dangers given. 
O, would that Gunnar could suffice 
To be the fiend's last sacrifice, 
So that, when glutted with my gore, 
He fled and tempted thee no more ! ' 170 

VIII 
Then waved his hand and shook his head 
The impatient Dane while thus he said : 



CANTO THIRD 



383 



* Profane not, youth — it is not thine 
To judge the spirit of our line — 
The bold Berserkar's rage divine, 
Through whose inspiring deeds are 

wrought 
Past human strength and human thought. 
When full upon his gloomy soul 
The champion feels the influence roll. 
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall — 180 
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the 

fall — 
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes 
Singly against a host of foes; 
Their spears he holds like withered reeds, 
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds ; 
One 'gainst a hundred will he strive, 
Take countless wounds and yet survive. 
Then rush the eagles to his cry 
Of slaughter and of victory, — 
And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl, 190 
Deep drinks his sword, — deep drinks his 

soul; 
And all that meet him in his ire 
He gives to ruin, rout, and fire ; 
Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den 
And couches till he 's man agen. — 
Thou know'st the signs of look and limb 
When 'gins that rage to overbrim — 
Thou know'st when I am moved and 

why; 
And when thou see'st me roll mine eye, 
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot, 200 
Regard thy safety and be mute ; 
But else speak boldly out whate'er 
Is fitting that a knight should hear. 
I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power 
Upon my dark and sullen hour; — 
So Christian monks are wont to say 
Demons of old were charmed away; 
Then fear not I will rashly deem 
111 of thy speech, whate'er the theme.' 209 

IX 

As down some strait in doubt and dread 

The watchful pilot drops the lead, 

And, cautious in the midst to steer. 

The shoaling channel sounds with fear; 

So, lest on dangerous ground he swerved, 

The page his master's brow observed, 

Pausing at intervals to fling 

His hand on the melodious string, 

And to his moody breast apply 

The soothing charm of harmony. 

While hinted half, and half exprest, 220 

This warning song conveyed the rest. — 



SONG 

* 111 fares the bark with tackle riven, 
And ill when on the breakers driven, — 
111 when the storm-sprite shrieks in air. 
And the scared mermaid tears her hair; 
But worse when on her helm the hand 
Of some false traitor holds commando 

* 111 fares the fainting palmer, placed 
Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste, — 
111 when the scorching sun is high, 230 
And the expected font is dry, — 

Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath. 
The barbarous Copt, has planned his death. 

* 111 fares the knight with buckler cleft, 
And ill when of his helm bereft, — 

111 when his steed to earth is flung. 
Or from his grasp his falchion wrung; 
But worse, of instant ruin token, 
When he lists rede by woman spoken.' — 



* How now, fond boy ? — Canst thou think 

ill,' 240 

Said Harold, * of fair Metelill ? ' 

* She may be fair,' the page replied 

As through the strings he ranged, — 

* She may be fair; but yet,' he cried. 

And then the strain he changed, — 

SONG 

* She may be fair,' he sang, * but yet 

Far fairer have I seen 
Than she, for all her locks of jet 

And eyes so dark and sheen. 
Were I a Danish knight in arms, 250 

As one day I may be. 
My heart should own no foreign charms — 

A Danish maid for me ! 

* I love my father's northern land, 

Where the dark pine-trees grow, 
And the bold Baltic's echoing strand 

Looks o'er eacli grassy oe. 
I love to mark the lingering sun. 

From Denmark loath to go, 
And leaving on the biHows bright, 260 

To cheer the short-lived summer night, 

A path of ruddy glow. 

* But most the northern maid I lovo, 

With breast like Denmark's snow 



384 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



And form as fair as Denmark's pine, 
Who loves with purple heath to twine 

Her locks of sunny glow; 
And sweetly blend that shade of gold 

With the cheek's rosy hue, 
And Faith might for her mirror hold 270 

That eye of matchless blue. 

* 'T is hers the manly sports to love 

That southern maidens fear. 
To bend the bow by stream and grove, 

And lift the hunter's spear. 
She can her chosen champion's flight 

With eye undazzled see. 
Clasp him victorious from the strife, 
Or on his corpse yield up her life, — 

A Danish maid for me ! ' 280 

XI 

Then smiled the Dane : * Thou canst so well, 
The virtues of our maidens tell, 
Half could I wish my choice had been 
Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen, 
And lofty soul ; — yet what of ill 
Hast thou to charge on Metelill ? ' 

* Nothing on her,' young Gunnar said, 
' But her base sire's ignoble trade. 
Her mother too — the general fame 
Hath given to Jutta evil name, 290 
And in her gray eye is a flame 

Art cannot hide nor fear can tame. — 
That sordid woodman's peasant cot 
Twice have thine honored footsteps sought, 
And twice returned with such ill rede 
As sent thee on some desperate deed.' 

XII 

*Thou errest; Jutta wisely said, 

He that comes suitor to a maid. 

Ere linked in marriage, should provide 

Lands and a dwelling for his bride — 300 

My father's by the Tyne and Wear 

I have reclaimed.' — ' O, all too dear 

And all too dangerous the prize. 

E'en were it won,' young Gunnar cries ; — 

* And then this Jutta's fresh device. 
That thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane, 
From Durham's priests a boon to gain 
When thou hast left their vassals slain 

In their own halls ! ' — Flashed Harold's 

eye. 
Thundered his voice — * False page, you 

lie ! ' 3 10 

The castle, hall and tower, is mine, 
Built by old Witikind on Tyne. 



The wild-cat will defend his den. 
Fights for her nest the timid wren; 
And think'st thou I '11 forego my right 
For dread of monk or monkish knight ? — 
Up and away, that deepening bell 
Doth of the bishop's conclave tell. 
Thither will I in manner due. 
As Jutta bade, my claim to sue; 320 

And if to right me they are loath. 
Then woe to church and chapter both ! ' 
Now shift the scene and let the curtain fall. 
And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's hall. 



CANTO FOURTH 



Full many a bard hath sung the solemn 
gloom 

Of the long Gothic aisle and stone-ribbed 
roof, 

O'er-canopying shrine and gorgeous tomb. 

Carved screen, and altar glimmering far 
aloof 

And blending with the shade — a match- 
less proof 

Of high devotion, which hath now waxed 
cold; 

Yet legends say that Luxury's brute hoof 

Intruded oft within such sacred fold. 
Like step of Bel's false priest tracked in 
his fane of old. 

Well pleased am I, howe'er, that when 

the rout 10 

Of our rude neighbors whilome deigned 

to come. 
Uncalled and eke unwelcome, to sweep out 
And cleanse our chancel from the rags of 

Rome, 
They spoke not on our ancient fane the 

doom 
To which their bigot zeal gave o'er their 

own. 
But spared the martyred saint and storied 

tomb. 
Though papal miracles had graced the 

stone. 
And though the aisles still loved the organ's 

swelling tone. 

And deem not, though 't is now my part 

to paint 
A prelate swayed by love of power and 

gold, 20 



CANTO FOURTH 



385 



That all who wore the mitre of our Saint 
Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold; 
Since both in modern times and days of 

old 
It sate on those whose virtues might 

atone 
Their predecessors' frailties trebly told: 
Matthew and Morton we as such may 

own — 
A.nd such — if fame speak truth — the 

honored Barrington. 

II 

But now to earlier and to ruder times, 
As subject meet, I tune my rugged 

rhymes, 29 

Telling how fairly the chapter was met. 
And rood and books in seemly order set; 
Huge brass-clasped volumes which the 

hand 
Of studious priest but rarely scanned, 
Now on fair carved desk displayed, 
'T was theirs the solemn scene to aid. 
O'erhead with many a scutcheon graced 
And quaint devices interlaced, 
A labyrinth of crossing rows. 
The roof in lessening arches shows; 
Beneath its shade placed proud and 

high 40 

With footstool and with canopy. 
Sate Aldingar — and prelate ne'er 
More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's 

chair; 
Canons and deacons were placed below. 
In due degree and lengthened row. 
Unmoved and silent each sat there. 
Like image in his oaken chair; 
Nor head nor hand nor foot they stirred. 
Nor lock of hair nor tress of beard; 
And of their eyes severe alone 50 

The twinkle showed they were not stone. 

Ill 

The prelate was to speech addressed, 
Each head sunk reverent on each breast; 
But ere his voice was heard — without 
Arose a wild tumultuous shout, 
Offspring of wonder mixed with fear, 
Such as in crowded streets we hear 
Hailing the flames that, bursting out, 
Attract yet scare the rabble rout. 
Ere it had ceased a giant hand 60 

Shook oaken door and iron band 
Till oak and iron both gave way, 
Clashed the long bolts, the hinges bray. 



And, ere upon angel or saint they can 

call. 
Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of 

the hall. 

IV 

* Now save ye, my masters, both rocket and 

rood. 
From bishop with mitre to deacon with 

hood ! 
For here stands Count Harold, old Witi- 

kind's son. 
Come to sue for the lands which his ances- 
tors won.' 
The prelate looked round him with sore 

troubled eye, 70 

Unwilling to grant yet afraid to deny; 
While each canon and deacon who heard 

the Dane speak. 
To be safely at home would have fasted a 

week: — 
Then Aldingar roused him and answered 

again, 

* Thou suest for a boon which thou canst 

not obtain; 

The Church hath no fiefs for an unchris- 
tened Dane. 

Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath 
given 

That the priests of a chantry might hymn 
him to heaven ; 

And the fiefs which whilome he possessed 
as his due 

Have lapsed to the Church, and been 
granted anew 80 

To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere, 

For the service Saint Cuthbert's blest ban- 
ner to bear 

When the bands of the North come to foray 
the Wear; 

Then disturb not our conclave with wran- 
gling or blame. 

But in peace and in patience pass hence as 
ye came.' 



Loud laughed the stern Pagan, * They 're 
free from the care 

Of fief and of service, both Conyers and 
Vere, — 

Six feet of your chancel is all they will 
need, 

A buckler of stone and a corselet of load. — 

Ho, Gunnar ! — the tokens ! ' — and, sev- 
ered anew, 90 



386 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



A head and a hand on the altar he threw. 

Then shuddered with terror both canon 
and monk, 

They knew the glazed eye and the counte- 
nance shrunk, 

And of Anthony Conyers the half -grizzled 
hair, 

And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic 
Yere. 

There was not a churchman or priest that 
was there 

But grew pale at the sight and betook him 
to prayer. 

VI 

Count Harold laughed at their looks of 
fear: 

* Was this the hand should your banner 

bear ? 99 

Was that the head should wear the casque 
In battle at the Church's task ? 
Was it to such you gave the place 
Of Harold with the heavy mace ? 
Find me between the Wear and Tyne 
A knight will wield this club of mine, — 
Give him my fiefs, and I will say 
There 's wit beneath the cowl of gray.' 
He raised it, rough with many a stain 
Caught from crushed skull and spouting 

brain; 
He wheeled it that it shrilly sung no 

And the aisles echoed as it swung. 
Then dashed it down with sheer descent 
And split King Osric's monument. — 

* How like ye this music ? How trow ye 

the hand 
That can vrield such a mace may be reft of 

its land ? 
No answer ? — I spare ye a space to agree, 
And Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if 

he be. 
Ten strides through your chancel, ten 

strokes on your bell. 
And again I am with you — grave fathers, 

farewell.' 

VII 

He turned from their presence, he clashed 

the oak door, 120 

And the clang of his stride died away on 

the floor; 
And his head from his bosom the prelate 

uprears 
With a ghost-seer's look when the ghost 

disappears : 



'Ye Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give 

me your rede, 
For never of counsel had bishop more 

need ! 
Were the arch-fiend incarnate in flesh and 

in bone. 
The language, the look, and the laugh were 

his own. 
In the bounds of Saint Cuthbert there is 

not a knight 
Dare confront in our quarrel yon goblin in 

fight; 
Then rede me aright to his claim to 

reply, ^ 130 

'T is unlawful to grant and 't is death to 

deny.' 

vin 
On venison and malmsie thatT^^ning had 

The Cellarer Vinsauf — 't was thus that he 

said: 
'Delay till to-morrow the Chapter's reply; 
Let the feast be spread fair and the wine 

be poured high: 
If he 's mortal he drinks, — if he drinks, 

he is ours — 
His bracelets of iron, — his bed in our 

towers.' 
This man had a laughing eye, 
Trust not, friends, when such you spy; 
A beaker's depth he well could drain, 140 
Revel, sport, and jest amain — 
The haunch of the deer and the grape's 

bright dye 
Never bard loved them better than I; 
But sooner than Vinsauf filled me my 

wine. 
Passed me his jest, and laughed at mine, 
Though the buck were of Bearpark, of 

Bordeaux the vine, 
With the dullest hermit I 'd rather dine 
On an oaken cake and a draught of the 

Tyne. 

IX 
Walwayn the leech spoke next — he knew 
Each plant that loves the sun and dew, 150 
But special those whose juice can gain. 
Dominion o'er the blood and brain; 
The peasant who saw him by pale moon- 
beam 
Gathering such herbs by bank and stream 
Deemed his thin form and soundless tread 
Were those of wanderer from the dead. — 



CANTO FOURTH 



387 



• Vinsauf , thy wine,' he said, * hath power, . 
Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower; 
Yet three drops from this flask of mine, 
More strong than dungeons, gyves, or 

wine, 160 

Shall give him prison under ground 
More dark, more narrow, more profound. 
Short rede, good rede, let Harold have — 
A dog's death and a heathen's grave.' 
I have lain on a sick man's bed, 
Watching for hours for the leech's tread. 
As if I deemed that his presence alone 
Were of power to bid my pain begone ; 
I have listed his words of comfort given. 
As if to oracles from heaven; 170 

I have counted his steps from my chamber 

door. 
And blessed them when they were heard 

no more ; — 
But sooner than Walwayn my sick couch 

should nigh. 
My choice were by leech-craft unaided to 

die. 

X 

* Such service done in fervent zeal 
The Church may pardon and conceal,' 
The doubtful prelate said, * but ne'er 
The counsel ere the act should hear. — 
Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now, 

The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow; 180 
Thy days, thy nights, in cloister pent. 
Are still to mystic learning lent; — 
Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope. 
Thou well mayst give counsel to prelate or 
pope.' 

XI 

Answered the prior, — * 'T is wisdom's use 
Still to delay what we dare not refuse; 
Ere granting the boon he comes hither to 

ask. 
Shape for the giant gigantic task; 
Let us see how a step so sounding can 

tread 
In paths of darkness, danger, and dread; 190 
He may not, he will not, impugn our decree 
That calls but for proof of his chivalry; 
And were Guy to return or Sir Bevis the 

Strong, 
Our wilds have adventure might cumber 

them long — 
The Castle of Seven Shields '—* Kind 

Anselm, no more ! 
The step of the Pagan approaches the 

door.' 



The churchmen were hushed. — In his 

mantle of skin 
With his mace on his shoulder Count 

Harold strode in. 
There was foam on his lips, there was fire 

in his eye. 
For, chafed by attendance, his fury was 

nigh. 200 

* Ho ! Bishop,' he said, * dost thou grant 

me my claim ? 
Or must I assert it by falchion and flame ? ' 

XII 

* On thy suit, gallant Harold,' the bishop 

replied. 
In accents which trembled, *we may not 

decide 
Until proof of your strength and your valor 

we saw — 
'T is not that we doubt them, but such is 

the law.' — 

* And would you. Sir Prelate, have Hai'old 

make sport 
For the cowls and the shavelings that herd 

in thy court ? 
Say what shall he do ? — From the shrine 

shall he tear 
The lead bier of thy patron and heave it in 

air, 2 lo 

And through the long chancel make Cuth- 

bert take wing 
With the speed of a bullet dismissed from 

the sling ? ' — 

* Nay, spare such probation,' the cellarer 

said, 

* From the mouth of our minstrels thy 

task shall be read. 

While the wine sparkles high in the goblet 
of gold 

And the revel is loudest, thy task shall be 
told; 

And thyself, gallant Harold, shall, hearing 
it, tell 

That the bishop, his cowls, and his shave- 
lings, meant well.' 

XIII 

Loud revelled the guests and the goblets 

loud rang, 
But louder the minstrel, Hugh Meueville, 

sang; ^ aao 

And Harold, the hurry and pride of whose 

soul, 
E'en when verging to fury, owned music's 

conLroU 



388 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



Still bent on the harper his broad sable eye, 
And often untasted the goblet passed by; 
Than wine or than wassail to him was more 

dear 
The minstrel's high tale of enchantment to 

hear; 
And the bishop that day might of Vinsauf 

complain 
That his art had but wasted his wine-casks 

in vain. 

XIV 

THE CASTLE OF THE SEVEN SHIELDS 

A BALLAD 

The Druid Urien had daughters seven, 
Their skill could call the moon from hea- 
ven; 230 
So fair their forms and so high their fame 
That seven proud kings for their suitors 
came. 

King Mador and Rhys came from Powis 
and Wales, 

Unshorn was their hair and unpruned were 
their nails ; 

From Strath-Clyde was Ewain, and Ewain 
was lame, 

And the red-bearded Donald from Gallo- 
way came. 

Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchbacked from 
youth ; 

Dunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth ; 

But Adolf of Bambrough, Northumber- 
land's heir. 

Was gay and was gallant, was young and 
was fair. 240 

There was strife 'mongst the sisters, for 

each one would have 
For husband King Adolf, the gallant and 

brave ; 
And envy bred hate, and hate urged them 

to blows, 
When the firm earth was cleft and the 

Arch-fiend arose ! 

He swore to the maidens their wish to ful- 
fil— 

They swore to the foe they would work by 
his will. 

A spindle and distaff to each hath he given, 

' Now hearken my spell,' said the Outcast 
of heaven. 



*.Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight 
hour, 249 

And for every spindle shall rise a tower, 

Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong 
shall have power, 

And there shall ye dwell with your para- 
mour.' 

Beneath the pale moonlight they sate on 
the wold, 

And the rhymes which they chanted must 
never be told; 

And as the black wool from the distaff they 
sped, 

With blood from their bosom they mois- 
tened the thread. 

As light danced the spindles beneath the 

cold gleam, 
The castle arose like the birth of a 

dream — 
The seven towers ascended like mist from 

the ground, 
Seven portals defend them, seven ditches 

surround. 260 

Within that dread castle seven monarchs 
were wed. 

But six of the seven ere the morning lay 
dead; 

With their eyes all on fire and their dag- 
gers all red. 

Seven damsels surround the Northum- 
brian's bed. 

* Six kingly bridegrooms to death we have 
done. 

Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath 
won, 

Six lovely brides all his pleasure to do. 

Or the bed of the seventh shall be husband- 
less too.' 

Well chanced it that Adolf the night when 
he wed 

Had confessed and had sained him e'er 
boune to his bed; 270 

He sprung from the couch and his broad- 
sword he drew, 

And there the seven daughters of Urien he 
slew. 

The gate of the castle he bolted and sealed, 
And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown 
and a shield; 



i 



CANTO FIFTH 



389 



To the cells of Saint Dunstan then wended 

his way, 
And died in his cloister an anchorite gray. 

Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies 

stowed, 
The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven 

and toad. 
Whoever shall guesten these chambers 

within, 
From curfew till matins, that treasure 

shall win. 280 

But manhood grows faint as the world 

waxes old ! 
There lives not in Britain a champion so 

bold. 
So dauntless of heart and so prudent of 

brain, 
As to dare the adventure that treasure to 

gain. 

The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave 
with the rye. 

Before the rude Scots shall Northumber- 
land fly, 

And the flint cliffs of Bambro' shall melt in 
the sun. 

Before that adventure be perilled and won. 

XV 

* And is this my probation ? " wild Harold 

he said, 

* Within a lone castle to press a lone 

bed ? — 290 

Good even, my lord bishop, — Saint Cuth- 

bert to borrow. 
The Castle of Seven Shields receives me 

to-morrow.' 



CANTO FIFTH 



Denmark's sage courtier to her princely 

youth. 
Granting his cloud an ousel or a whale. 
Spoke, though unwittingly, a partial 

truth; 
For Fantasy embroiders Nature's veil. 
The tints of ruddy eve or dawning pale. 
Of the swart thunder - cloud or silver 
haze, 
, Are but the ground-work of the rich de- 
tail 



Which Fantasy with pencil wild portrays, 
Blending what seems and is in the wrapt 
muser's gaze. 

Nor are the stubborn forms of earth and 

stone 10 

Less to the Sorceress's empire given; 
For not with unsubstantial hues alone. 
Caught from the varying surge of vacant 

heaven. 
From bursting sunbeam or from flashing 

levin. 
She limns her pictures: on the earth, as 

air. 
Arise her castles and her car is driven; 
And never gazed the eye on scene so fair, 
But of its boasted charms gave Fancy half 

the share. 

II 

Up a wild pass went Harold, bent to 

prove, 
Hugh Meneville, the adventure of thy 

lay; 20 

Gunnar pursued his steps in faith and 

love. 
Ever companion of his master's way. 
Midward their path, a rock of granite 

gray 
From the adjoining cliff had made de- 
scent, — 
A barren mass — yet with her drooping 

spray 
Had a young birch -tree crowned its 

battlement. 
Twisting her fibrous roots through crannji 

flaw, and rent. 

This rock and tree could Gunnar's 

thought engage 
Till Fancy brought the tear-drop to his 

eye. 
And at his master asked the timid 

page, 30 

* What is the emblem that a bard should 

spy 

In that rude rock and its green canopy ? * 
And Harokl said, * Like to the helmet 

brave 
Of warrior slain in fight it seems to 

lie, 
And these same drooping boughs do o'er 

it wave 
Not all unlike the plume his lady's favor 

gave.' 



390 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



*Ah, no!' replied the page; *the ill- 
starred love 

Of some poor maid is in the emblem 
shown, 

Whose fates are with some hero's inter- 
wove, 

And rooted on a heart to love un- 
known: 40 

And as the gentle dews of heaven alone 

Nourish those drooping boughs, and as 
the scathe 

Of the red lightning rends both tree and 
stone, 

So fares it with her unrequited faith, — 
Her sole relief is tears — her only refuge 
death.' 

Ill 

*Thou art a fond fantastic boy,' 
Harold replied, ^ to females coy, 

Yet prating still of love; 
Even so amid the clash of war 
I know thou lov'st to keep afar, 50 

Though destined by thy evil star 

With one like me to rove, 
Whose business and whose joys are found 
Upon the bloody battle-ground. 
Yet, foolish trembler as thou art. 
Thou hast a nook of my rude heart, 
And thou and I will never part; — 
Harold would wrap the world in flame 
Ere injury on Gunnar came.' 



IV 



60 



The grateful page made no reply. 
But turned to heaven his gentle eye. 
And clasped his hands, as one who said, 
* My toils — my wanderings are o'erpaid f ' 
Then in a gayer, lighter strain. 
Compelled himself to speech again; 

And, as they flowed along. 
His words took cadence soft and slow, 
And liquid, like dissolving snow, 

They melted into song. 



* What though through fields of carnage 
wide 70 

I may not follow Harold's stride, 
Yet who with faithful Gunnar's pride 

Lord Harold's feats can see ? 
And dearer than the couch of pride 
He loves the bed of gray wolf's hide, 
When slumbering by Lord Harold's side 

In forest, field, or lea.' 



90 



VI 

* Break off ! ' said Harold, in a tone 
Where hurry and surprise were shown. 

With some slight touch of fear, 80 

* Break off, we are not here alone; 
A palmer form comes slowly on ! 
By cowl and staff and mantle known. 

My monitor is near. 
Now mark him, Gunnar, heedfully; 
He pauses by the blighted tree — 
Dost see him, youth ? — Thou couldst not see 
When in the vale of Galilee 

I first beheld his form. 
Nor when we met that other while 
In Cephalonia's rocky isle 

Before the fearful storm, — 
Dost see him now ? ' — The page, dis- 
traught 
With terror, answered, * I see nought, 

And there is nought to see. 
Save that the oak's scathed boughs fling 

down 
Upon the path a shadow brown 
That, like a pilgrim's dusky gown, 

Waves with the waving tree.' 

VII 

Count Harold gazed upon the oak 100 

As if his eyestrings would have broke. 
And then resolvedly said, 

* Be what it will yon phantom gray — 
Nor heaven nor hell shall ever say 
That for their shadows from his way 

Count Harold turned dismayed: 
I '11 speak him, though his accents fill 
My heart with that unwonted thrill 

Which vulgar minds call fear. 
I will subdue it ! ' Forth he strode, no 
Paused where the blighted oak-tree showed 
Its sable shadow on the road, 
And, folding on his bosom broad 

His arms, said, * Speak — I hear.' 

VIII 

The Deep Voice said, * O wild of will. 
Furious thy purpose to fulfil — 
Heart-seared and unrepentant still. 
How long, O Harold, shall thy tread 
Disturb the slumbers of the dead ? 
Each step in thy wild way thou makest, 
The ashes of the dead thou wakest; 
And shout in triumph o'er thy path 
The fiends of bloodshed and of wrath. 
In this thine hour, yet turn and hear ! 
For life is brief and judgment near.* 



CANTO FIFTH 



391 



IX 

Then ceased the Voice. — The Dane re- 
plied 
In tones where awe and inborn pride 
For mastery strove, • In vain ye chide 
The wolf for ravaging the flock, 
Or with its hardness taunt the rock, — 130 
I am as they — my Danish strain 
Sends streams of fire through every vein. 
Amid thy realms of goule and ghost, 
Say, is the fame of Eric lost. 
Or Witikind's the Waster, known 
Where fame or spoil was to be won; 
Whose galleys ne'er bore off a shore 

They left not black with flame ? — 
He was my sire, — and, sprung of him, 
That rover merciless and grim, 140 

Can I be soft and tame? 
Part hence and with my crimes no more 

upbraid me, 
I am that Waster's son and am but what 
he made me.' 



The Phantom groaned ; — the mountain 

shook around. 
The fawn and wild -doe started at the 

sound, 
The gorse and fern did wildly round them 

wave, 
As if some sudden storm the impulse gave. 
* All thou hast said is truth — yet on the 

head 
Of that bad sire let not the charge be laid 
That he, like thee, with unrelenting pace 150 
From grave to cradle ran the evil race : — 
Relentless in his avarice and ire. 
Churches and towns he gave to sword and 

fire; 
Shed blood like water, wasted every land, 
Like the destroying angel's burning brand ; 
Fulfilled whate'er of ill might be invented, 
Yes, — all these things he did — he did, 

but he REPENTED ! 

Perchance it is part of his punishment still 
That his offspring pursues his example of 

ill. 
But thou, when thy tempest of wrath shall 

next shake thee, 160 

Gird thy loins for resistance, my son, and 

awake thee; 
If thou yield'st to thy fury, how tempted 

soever. 
The gate of repentance shall ope for thee 

NEVER ! ' 



XI 

* He is gone,' said Lord Harold and gazed 

as he spoke; 

* There is nought on the path but the shade 

of the oak. 
He is gone whose strange presence my 

feeling oppressed. 
Like the night-hag that sits on the slum- 

berer's breast. 
My heart beats as thick as a fugitive's 

tread. 
And cold dews drop from my brow and 

my head. — 
Ho ! Gunnar, the flasket yon almoner 

gave; 170 

He said that three drops would recall 

from the grave. 
For the first time Count Harold owns 

leechcraft has power. 
Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of a 

flower ! ' 
The page gave the flasket, which Walwayn 

had filled 
With the juice of wild roots that his heart 

had distilled — 
So baneful their influence on all that had 

breath. 
One drop had been frenzy and two had been 

death. 
Harold took it, but drank not; for jubilee 

shrill 
And music and clamor were heard on the 

hill. 
And down the steep pathway o'er stock and 

o'er stone 180 

The train of a bridal came blithesomely 

on; 
There was song, there was pipe, there was 

timbrel, and still 
The burden was, * Joy to the fair Metelill I ' 

XII 

Harold might see from his high stance 
Himself unseen, that train advance. 

With mirth and melody; — 
On horse and foot a mingled throng, 
Measuring their steps to bridal song 

And bridal minstrelsy; 
And ever when the blithesome rout :9c 
Lent to the song their choral shout, 
Kodoubling echoes rolled about, 
While echoing cave and cliff sent out 

The answering symphony 
Of all those mimic notes which dwell 
In hollow rock and sounding dell. 



392 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



XIII 

Joy shook his torch above the band, 
By many a various passion fanned; — 
As elemental sparks can feed 
On essence pure and coarsest weed, 200 
Gentle or stormy or refined, 
Joy takes the colors of the mind. 
Lightsome and pure but unrepressed. 
He fired the bridegroom's gallant breast ; 
More feebly strove with maiden fear, 
Yet still joy glimmered through the tear 
On the bride's blushing cheek that shows 
Like dew-drop on the budding rose ; 
While Wulfstane's gloomy smile declared 
The glee that selfish avarice shared, 210 
And pleased revenge and malice high 
Joy's semblance took in Jutta's eye. 
On dangerous adventure sped. 
The witch deemed Harold with the dead, 
For thus that morn her demon said : — 
* If, ere the set of sun, be tied 
The knot 'twixt bridegroom and his bride. 
The Dane shall have no power of ill 
O'er William and o'er Metelill.' 
And the pleased witch made answer, 
' Then 220 

Must Harold have passed from the paths 

of men ! 
Evil repose may his spirit have, — 
May hemlock and mandrake find root in 

his grave, — 
May his death-sleep be dogged by dreams 

of dismay. 
And his waking be worse at the answer- 
ing day ! ' 

XIV 

Such was their various mood of glee 
Blent in one shout of ecstasy. 
But still when Joy is brimming highest. 
Of sorrow and misfortune nighest. 
Of Terror with her ague cheek, 230 

And lurking Danger, sages speak: — 
These Haunt each path, but chief they lay 
Their snares beside the primrose way. — 
Thus found that bridal band their path 
Beset by Harold in his wrath. 
Trembling beneath his maddening moocl, 
High on a rock the giant stood ; 
His shout was like the doom of death 
Spoke o'er their heads that passed be- 
neath. 
His destined victims might not spy 240 
The reddening terrors of his eye, 
The frown of rage that writhed his face. 



The lip that foamed like boar's in chase; 
But all could see — and, seeing, all 

Bore back to shun the threatened fall 

The fragment which their giant foe 
Kent from the cliff and heaved to throw. 

XV 

Backward they bpre — yet are there two 

For battle who prepare : 249 

No pause of dread Lord William knew 

Ere his good blade was bare; 
And Wulfstane bent his fatal yew, 
But ere the silken cord he drew. 
As hurled from Hecla's thunder flew 

That ruin through the air ! 
Full on the outlaw's front it came, 
And all that late had human name, 
And human face, and human frame, 
That lived and moved and had free will 
To choose the path of good or ill, 260 

Is to its reckoning gone; 
And nought of Wulfstane rests behind 

Save that beneath that stone, 
Half-buried in the dinted clay, 
A red and shapeless mass there lay 

Of mingled flesh and bone ! 

XVI 
As from the bosom of the sky 

The eagle darts amain. 
Three bounds from yonder summit high 

Placed Harold on the plain. 270 

As the scared wild-fowl scream and fly, 

So fled the bridal train; 
As 'gainst the eagle's peerless might 
The noble falcon dares the fight, 

But dares the fight in vain, 
So fought the bridegroom; from his 

hand 
The Dane's rude mace has struck his 

brand. 
Its glittering fragments strew the sand, 

Its lord lies on the plain. 
Now, Heaven ! take noble William's 
part, 280 

And melt that yet unmelted heart, 
Or, ere his bridal hour depart, 

The hapless bridegroom 's slain I 

XVII 

Count Harold's frenzied rage is high, 
There is a death-fire in his eye. 
Deep furrows on his brow are trenched. 
His teeth are set, his hand is clenched, 
The foam upon his lip is white, 



CANTO SIXTH 



393 



His deadly arm is up to smite ! 
But, as the mace aloft he swung, 290 

To stop the blow young Gunnar sprung, 
Around his master's knees he clung, 

And cried, * In mercy spare ! 
O, think upon the words of fear 
Spoke by that visionary Seer, 
The crisis he foretold is here, — 

Grant mercy, — or despair ! ' 
This word suspended Harold's mood. 
Yet still with arm upraised he stood. 
And visage like the headsman's rude 300 

That pauses for the sign. 
* O mark thee with the blessed rood,' 
The page implored : * Speak word of 

good, 
Resist the fiend or be subdued ! ' 

He signed the cross divine — 
Instant his eye hath human light. 
Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright; 
His brow relaxed the obdurate frown, 
The fatal mace sinks gently down, 

He turns and strides away; 310 

Yet oft, like revellers who leave 
Unfinished feast, looks back to grieve, 
As if repenting the reprieve 

He granted to his prey. 
Yet still of forbearance one sign hath he 

given. 

And fierce Witikind's son made one step 
towards heaven. 

XVIII 

But though his dreaded footsteps part, 
Death is behind and shakes his dart; 
Lord William on the plain is lying. 
Beside him Metelill seems dying ! — 320 
Bring odors — essences in haste — 
And lo 1 a flasket richly chased, — 
But Jutta the elixir proves 
Ere pouring it for those she loves — 
Then Walwayn's potion was not wasted, 
For when three drops the hag had tasted 

So dismal was her yell, 
Each bird of evil omen woke, 
The raven gave his fatal croak. 
And shrieked the night-crow from the 
oak, 330 

The screech-owl from the thicket broke. 

And fluttered down the dell ! 
So fearful was the sound and stern. 
The slumbers of the full-gorged erne 
Were startled, and from furze and fern 

Of forest and of fell 
The fox and famished wolf replied — 



For wolves then prowled the Cheviot 

side — 
From mountain head to mountain head 
The unhallowed sounds around were 

sped; 340 

But when their latest echo fled 
The sorceress on the ground lay dead. 

XIX 
Such was the scene of blood and woes 
With which the bridal morn arose 

Of William and of Metelill; 
But oft, when dawning 'gins to spread, 
The summer morn peeps dim and red 

Above the eastern hill. 
Ere, bright and fair, upon his road 
The king of splendor walks abroad; 350 
So, when this cloud had passed away. 
Bright was the noontide of their day 
And all serene its setting ray. 



CANTO SIXTH 



Well do I hope that this my minstrel 

tale 
Will tempt no traveller from southern 

fields. 
Whether in tilbury, barouche, or mail, 
To view the Castle of these Seven Proud 

Shields. 
Small confirmation its condition yields 
To Meneville's high lay, — no towers are 

seen 
On the wild heath but those that Fancy 

builds. 
And, save a fosse that tracks the moor 

with green. 
Is nought remains to tell of what may there 

have been. 

And yet grave authors, with the no small 

waste 10 

Of their grave time, have dignified the spot 
By theories, to prove tho fortress placed 
By Roman bands to curb the invading 

Scot. 
Hutchinson, Horseley, Camden, I might 

quote. 
But rather choose the theory less civil 
Of boors, who, origin of tilings forgot, 
Refer still to the origin of evil, 
And for their master-mason choose that 

master-fiend the Devil. 



394 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



II 

Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built 
towers 

That stout Count Harold bent his won- 
dering gaze 20 

When evening dew was on the heather 
flowers, 

And the last sunbeams made the moun- 
tain blaze 

And tinged the battlements of other days 

With the bright level light ere sinking 
down. 

Illumined thus, the dauntless Dane sur- 
veys 

The Seven Proud Shields that o'er the 
portal frown, 
And on their blazons traced high marks of 
old renown. 

A wolf North Wales had on his armor- 
coat. 
And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag; 
Strath-Clwyd's strange emblem was a 

stranded boat, 30 

Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag; 
A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's 

brag; 
A dudgeon - dagger was by Dunmail 

worn; 
Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat 

crag 
Surmounted by a cross — such signs were 

borne 
Upon these antique shields, all wasted now 

and worn. 



Ill 

These. scanned, Count Harold sought the 

castle-door, 
Whose ponderous bolts were rusted to 

decay; 
Yet till that hour adventurous knight 

forbore 
The unobstructed passage to essay. 40 
More strong than armed warders in 

array, 
And obstacle more sure than bolt or 

bar, 
Sate in the portal Terror and Dismay, 
While Superstition, who forbade to war 
With foes of other mould than mortal 

clay. 
Cast spells across the gate and barred the 

onward way. 



Vain now those spells; for soon with 

heavy clank 
The feebly-fastened gate was inward 

pushed. 
And, as it oped, through that emblazoned 

rank 
Of antique shields the wind of evening 

rushed 50 

With sound most like a groan and then 

was hushed. 
Is none who on such spot such sounds 

could hear 
But to his heart the blood had faster 

rushed ; 
Yet to bold Harold's breast that throb 

was dear — 
It spoke of danger nigh, but had no touch 

of fear. 



IV 

Yet Harold and his page no signs have 
traced 

Within the castle that of danger showed; 

For still the halls and courts were wild 
and waste. 

As through their precincts the adventur- 
ers trode. 

The seven huge towers rose stately, tall, 
and broad, 60 

Each tower presenting to their scru- 
tiny 

A hall in which a king might make 
abode. 

And fast beside, garnished both proud 
and high. 
Was placed a bower for rest in which a 
king might lie. 



As if a bridal there of late had been, 
Decked stood the table in each gorgeous 

hall; 
And yet it was two hundred years, I 

ween. 
Since date of that unhallowed festival. 
Flagons and ewers and standing cups 

were all 
Of tarnished gold or silver nothing 

clear, 70 

With throne begilt and canopy of pall, 
And tapestry clothed the walls with 

fragments sear — 
Frail as the spider's mesh did that rich 

woof appear. 



CANTO SIXTH 



395 



In every bower, as round a hearse, was 

hung 
A dusky crimson curtain o*er the bed, 
And on each couch in ghastly wise were 

flung 
The wasted relics of a monarch dead; 
Barbaric ornaments around were spread, 
Vests twined with gold and chains of 

precious stone. 
And golden circlets, meet for monarch's 

head ; 80 

While grinned, as if in scorn amongst 

them thrown. 
The wearer's fleshless skull, alike with dust 

bestrewn. 

For these were they who, drunken with 
delight. 

On pleasure's opiate pillow laid their 
head. 

For whom the bride's shy footstep, slow 
and light. 

Was changed ere morning to the mur- 
derer's tread. 

For human bliss and woe in the frail 
thread 

Of human life are all so closely twined 

That till the shears of Fate the texture 
shred 

The close succession cannot be dis- 
joined, 90 
^OT dare we from one hour judge that 
which comes behind. 



VI 

But where the work of vengeance had 

been done, 
In that seventh chamber, was a sterner 

sight; 
There of the witch-brides lay each skele- 
ton, 
Still in the posture as to death when 

dight. 
For this lay prone, by one blow slain 

outright; 
And that, as one who struggled long in 

dying; 
One bony hand held knife, as if to 

smite ; 
One bent on fleshless knees, as mercy 

crying; 
)ne lay across the door, as killed in act of 

flying. 100 



The stern Dane smiled this charnel* 

house to see, — 
For his chafed thought returned to 

Metelill; — 
And * Well,' he said, * hath woman's per- 

fidy, 
Empty as air, as water volatile. 
Been here avenged. — The origin of 

ill 
Through woman rose, the Christian doc- 
trine saith; 
Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel 

skill 
Can show example where a woman's 

breath 
Hath made a true-love vow, and tempted 

kept her faith.' 

VII 

The minstrel - boy half smiled, half 
sighed, no 

And his half-filling eyes he dried. 
And said, *The theme I should buf 

wrong. 
Unless it were my dying song — 
Our Scalds have said, in dying hour 
The Northern harp has treble power — 
Else could I tell of woman's faith. 
Defying danger, scorn, and death. 
Firm was that faith — as diamond stone 
Pure and unflawed — her love unknown 
And unrequited; — firm and pure, 120 
Her stainless faith could all endure ; 
From clime to clime, from place to 

place. 
Through want and danger and disgrace, 
A wanderer's wayward steps could trace. 
All this she did, and guerdon none 
Required save that her burial-stone 
Should make at length the secret known, 
" Thus hath a faithful woman done." — 
Not in each breast such truth is laid, 
But Eivir was a Danish maid.' 130 

VIII 

* Thou art a wild enthusiast,' said 
Count Harold, *for thy Danisli maid; 
And yet, young Gunnar, I will own 
Hers were a faith to rest upon. 
But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone 
And all resembling her are gone. 
What maid e'er showed such constancy 
In plighted faith, like thine to mo ? 
But couch thee, boy; the darksome shade 



396 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS 



Falls thickly round, nor be dismayed 140 

Because the dead are by. 
They were as we ; our little day 
O'erspent, and we shall be as they. 
Yet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid, 
Thy couch upon my mantle made, 
That thou mayst think, should fear in- 
vade. 

Thy master slumbers nigh.' 
Thus couched they in that dread abode. 
Until the beams of dawning glowed. 

IX 

An altered man Lord Harold rose, 150 
When he beheld that dawn unclose — 

There 's trouble in his eyes. 
And traces on his brow and cheek 
Of mingled awe and wonder speak: 

* My page,' he said, * arise ; — 
Leave we this place, my page.' — No 

more 
He uttered till the castle door 
They crossed — but there he paused and 

said, 
* My wildness hath awaked the dead — 

Disturbed the sacred tomb ! 160 

Methought this night I stood on high 
Where Heel a roars in middle sky, 
And in her caverned gulfs could spy 
The central place of doom; 
And there before my mortal eye 
Souls of the dead came flitting by. 
Whom fiends with many a fiendish cry 

Bore to that evil den ! 
My eyes grew dizzy and my brain 
Was wilder ed, as the elvish train 170 

With shriek and howl dragged on amain 

Those who had late been men. 



* With haggard eyes and streaming hair, 

Jutta the Sorceress was there, 

And there passed Wulfstane lately slain. 

All crushed and foul with bloody stain. — 

More had I seen, but that uprose 

A whirlwind wild and swept the snows; 

And with such sound as when at need 

A champion spurs his horse to speed, 180 

Three armed knights rush on who lead 

Caparisoned a sable steed. 

Sable their harness, and there came 

Through their closed visors sparks of 

flame. 
The first proclaimed, in sounds of fear, 
** Harold the Dauntless, welcome here ! " 



The next cried, ** Jubilee ! we 've won 
Count Witikind the Waster's son ! " 
And the third rider sternly spoke, 189 
** Mount, in the name of Zernebock ! — 
From us, O Harold, were thy powers, — 
Thy strength, thy dauntlessness, are 

ours; 
Nor think, a vassal thou of hell. 
With hell can strive." The fiend spoke 

true ! 
My inmost soul the summons knew, 

As captives know the knell 
That says the headsman's sword is bare 
And with an accent of despair 

Commands them quit their cell. 
I felt resistance was in vain, 200 

My foot had that fell stirrup ta'en, 
My hand was on the fatal mane. 

When to my rescue sped 
That palmer's visionary form. 
And — like the passing of a storm — 

The demons yelled and fled ! 

XI 

' His sable cowl flung back revealed 
The features it before concealed; 

And, Gunnar, I could find 
In him whose counsels strove to stay 210 
So oft my course on wilful way 

My father Witikind ! 
Doomed for his sins and doomed for mine i 

A wanderer upon earth to pine 
Until his son shall turn to grace 
And smooth for him a resting-place. — 
Gunnar, he must not haunt in vain 
This world of wretchedness and pain: 
I '11 tame my wilful heart to live 
In peace — to pity and forgive — 220 
And thou, for so the Vision said, 
Must in thy Lord's repentance aid. 
Thy mother was a prophetess. 
He said, who by her skill could guess 
How close the fatal textures join 
Which knit thy thread of life with mine; 
Then dark he hinted of disguise 
She framed to cheat too curious eyes 
That not a moment might divide 
Thy fated footsteps from my side. 230 
Methought while thus my sire did teach 
I caught the meaning of his speech, 
Yet seems its purport doubtful now.* 
His hand then sought his thoughtful 

brow — 
Then first he marked, that in the tower 
His glove was left at waking hour. 



CANTO SIXTH 



397 



XII 

Trembling at first and deadly pale, 
Had Gunnar heard the visioned tale; 
But when he learned the dubious close 
He blushed like any opening rose, 240 
And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek. 
Hied back that glove of mail to seek; 
When soon a shriek of deadly dread 
Summoned his master to his aid. 

XIII 
What sees Count Harold in that bower 

So late his resting-place ? — 
The semblance of the Evil Power, 

Adored by all his race ! 
Odin in living form stood there. 
His cloak the spoils of Polar bear; 250 
For plumy crest a meteor shed 
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head, 
Yet veiled its haggard majesty 
To the wild lightnings of his eye. 
Such height was his as when in stone 
0*er Upsal's giant altar shown: 

So flowed his hoary beard; 
Such was his lance of mountain-pine, 
So did his sevenfold buckler shine; 

But when his voice he reared, 260 

Deep without harshness, slow and strong, 
The powerful accents rolled along. 
And while he spoke his hand was laid 
On captive Gunnar's shrinking head. 

XIV 

* Harold,' he said, * what rage is thine 
To quit the worship of thy line, 

To leave thy Warrior-God ? — 
With me is glory or disgrace. 
Mine is the onset and the chase. 
Embattled hosts before my face 270 

Are withered by a nod. 
Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat 
Deserved by many a dauntless feat 
Among the heroes of thy line, 
Eric and fiery Thorarine ? — 
Thou wilt not. Only I can give 
The joys for which the valiant live. 
Victory and vengeance — only I 
Can give the joys for which they die. 
The immortal tilt — the banquet full, 280 
The brimming draught from foe man's 

skull. 
Mine art thou, witness this thy glove, 
The faithful pledge of vassal's love.' 



XV 

* Tempter,' said Harold, firm of heart, 

* I charge thee, hence ! whate'er thou art, 
I do defy thee — and resist 

The kindling frenzy of my breast. 
Waked by thy words; and of my mail 
Nor glove nor buckler, splent nor nail. 
Shall rest with thee — that youth release, 
And, God or Demon, part in peace.' — 291 

* Eivir,' the Shape replied, * is mine. 
Marked in the birth-hour with my sign. 
Think'st thou that priest with drops of 

spray 
Could wash that blood-red mark away ? 
Or that a borrowed sex and name 
Can abrogate a Godhead's claim ? ' 
Thrilled this strange speech through 

Harold's brain. 
He clenched his teeth in high disdain. 
For not his new-born faith subdued 300 
Some tokens of his ancient mood. — 

* Now, by the hope so lately given 
Of better trust and purer heaven, 

I will assail thee, fiend ! ' — Then rose 
His mace, and with a storm of blows 
The mortal and the demon close. 

XVI 

Smoke rolled above, fire flashed around. 
Darkened the sky and shook the ground ; 

But not the artillery of hell. 
The bickering lightning, nor the rock 3 10 
Of turrets to the earthquake's shock. 

Could Harold's courage quell. 
Sternly the Dane his purpose kept, 
And blows on blows resistless heaped, 

Till quailed that demon form. 
And — for his power to hurt or kill 
Was bounded by a higher will — 

Evanished in a storm. 
Nor paused the Champion of the North, 
But raised and bore his Eivir forth 320 
From that wild scene of fiendish strife 
To light, to liberty, and life ! 

XVII 

He placed her on a bank of moss, 

A silver runnel bubbled by, 
And new-born thoughts his soul engross, 
And tremors yet unknown across 

His stubborn sinews fly. 
The while with timid hand the dew 
Upon her brow and neck he threw, 
And marked how life with rosy hue 330 



398 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



On her pale cheek revived anew 

And glimmered in her eye. 
Inly he said, ' That silken tress — 
What blindness mine that could not 

guess ! 
Or how could page's rugged dress 

That bosom's pride belie ? 
O, dull of heart, through wild and wave 
In search of blood and death to rave, 

With such a partner nigh ! ' 

XVIII 

Then in the mirrored pool he peered, 340 
Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard. 
The stains of recent conflict cleared, — 

And thus the Champion proved 
That he fears now who never feared. 

And loves who never loved. 
And Eivir — life is on her cheek 
And yet she will not move or speak. 

Nor will her eyelid fully ope ; 
Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye, 
Through its long fringe, reserved and 
shy, 350 

Affection's opening dawn to spy; 
And the deep blush, which bids its dye 
O'er cheek and brow and bosom fly, 

Speaks shamefacedness and hope. 

XIX 

But vainly seems the Dane to seek 

For terms his new-born love to speak, — 

For words, save those of wrath and 

wrong. 
Till now were strangers to his tongue; 
So, when he raised the blushing maid, 



In blunt and honest terms he said — 360 
'T were well that maids, when lovers 

woo. 
Heard none more soft, were all as true — 
* Eivir ! since thou for many a day 
Hast followed Harold's wayward way, 
It is but meet that in the line 
Of after-life I follow thine. 
To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide. 
And we will grace his altar's side, 
A Christian knight and Christian bride; 
And of Witikind's son shall the marvel be 

said 370 

That on the same morn he was christened 

and wed.' 



CONCLUSION 

And now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary 

maid ? 
And why these listless looks of yawning 

sorrow ? 
No need to turn the page as if 't were 

lead. 
Or fling aside the volume till to-mor- 
row. — 
Be cheered — 't is ended — and I will 

not borrow, 
To try thy patience more, one anecdote 
From Bartholine or Perinskiold or 

Snorro. 
Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath 

wrote 
A tale six cantos long, yet scorned to add 

a note. 380 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



From the time when Scott wrote the first of 
his long poems, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, 
till he deliberately abandoned the writing of 
long poems in Harold the Dauntless, twelve 
years later, he wrote about twoscore poems, 
and in the twelve years which then followed 
till he ceased writing altogether, only a dozen 
more, and a large number of these were occa- 
sional. This does not take account, however, 
of the bits of verse interspersed in the novels, 
some of which were among his most character- 
istic pieces. In 1806, after publishing The Lay 



of the Last Minstrel and before publishing 
Marmion, Scott issued a collection of Ballads 
and Lyrical Pieces, containing most of the 
matter included in our division, Early Ballads 
and Lyrics ; but not again was any collection 
made till his distribution of all his writings to- 
ward the end of his life. It has seemed best, 
in our arrangement, not to interrupt the series 
of long poems by inserting these scattered 
verses between them, but to group them all in 
this general division, in as closely chronologi- 
cal order as seemed practicable. 



THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE 



399 



THE DYING BARD 

* The Welsh tradition,' says Scott, * bears that 
a Bard, on his death-bed, demanded his harp, 
and played the air [DafPwdz Gangwen] to 
which these verses are adapted, requesting* that 
it might be performed at his funeral.' Published 
in 1806. 

DiNAS Emlinn, lament; for the moment is 
nigh, 

When mute in the woodlands thine echoes 
shall die: 

No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall 
rave, 

And mix his wild notes with the wild dash- 
ing wave. 

In spring and in autumn thy glories of 
shade 

Unhonored shall flourish, unhonored shall 
fade; 

For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the 
tongue 

That viewed them with rapture, with rap- 
ture that sung. 

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in 

their pride. 
And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's 

side; 
But where is the harp shall give life to 

their name ? 
And where is the bard shall give heroes 

their fame ? 

And O, Dinas Emlinn ! thy daughters so 

fair, 
Who heave the white bosom and wave the 

dark hair; 
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their 

eye, 
When half of their charms with Cadwallon 

shall die ? 

Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy loved 

scene 
To join the dim choir of the bards who 

have been; 
With Lewarcli, and Meilor, and Merlin 

the Old, 
And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold. 

And adieu, Dinas Emlinn ! still green be 
thy shades. 



Unconquered thy warriors and matchless 
thy maids ! 

And thou whose faint warblings my weak- 
ness can tell. 

Farewell, my loved harp ! my last trea- 
sure, farewell ! 



THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE 

The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous coun- 
try, and possessing only an inferior breed of 
horses, were usually unable to encounter the 
shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occa- 
sionally, however, they were successful in re- 
pelling the invaders ; and the following verses 
are supposed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, 
Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, 
Baron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Mon- 
mouthshire. Published in 1806. 

Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, 
And hammers din, and anvil sounds, 
And armorers with iron toil 
Barb many a steed for battle's broil. 
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel 
Around the courser's thundering heel, 
That e'er shall dint a sable wound 
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground ! 

From Chepstow's towers ere dawn of morn 
Was heard afar the bugle-horn, 
And forth in banded pomp and pride 
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. 
They swore their banners broad should 

gleam 
In crimson light on Rymny's stream; 
They vowed Caerphili's sod should feel 
The Norman charger's spurning heel. 

And sooth they swore — the sun arose. 
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows; 
For Clare's red banner, floating wide, 
Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide ! 
And sooth they vowed — the trampled 

green 
Showed where hot Neville's charge had 

been: 
In every sable hoof-tramp stood 
A Norman horseman's curdling blood ! 

Old Chepstow's brides may curse tlio toil 
That armed stout Clare for Cambrian broil; 
Their orphans long the art may ruo, 
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe. 



400 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



No more the stamp of armed steed 
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead; 
Nor trace be there in early spring 
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring. 



THE MAID OF TORO 

A later draft, 1806, of a song from * The 
House of Aspen/ See above, p. 10. 

O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of 
Toro, 
And weak were the whispers that waved 
the dark wood, 
All as a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow. 
Sorely sighed to the breezes and wept to 
the flood. 

* O saints, from the mansions of bliss lowly 

bending ! 
Sweet Virgin, who hearest the suppliant's 

cry I 
Now grant my petition in anguish ascending, 
My Henry restore or let Eleanor die ! ' 

All distant and faint were the sounds of the 
battle. 
With the breezes they rise, with the 
breezes they fail. 
Till the shout and the groan and the con- 
flict's dread rattle. 
And the chase's wild clamor, came load- 
ing the gale. 
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so 
dreary ; 
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen; 
Life's ebbing tide marked his footsteps so 
weary, 
Cleft was his helmet and woe was his 
mien. 

* O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are 

flying ! ^ ^ 

O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian 
is low ! 
Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry 
is lying, 
And fast through the woodland ap- 
proaches the foe.' 
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow. 
And scarce could she hear them, be- 
numbed with despair: 
And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake 
of Toro, 
Forever he set to the Brave and the Fair. 



THE PALMER 

Published, 1806, in Haydn's Collection of 
Scottish Airs. 

* O OPEN the door, some pity to show, 

Keen blows the northern wind ! 
The glen is white with the drifted snow, 
And the path is hard to find. 

* No outlaw seeks your castle gate, 

From chasing the king's deer. 
Though even an outlaw's wretched state 
Might claim compassion here. 

* A weary Palmer, worn and weak, 

I wander for my sin; 
O, open, for Our Lady's sake ! 
A pilgrim's blessing win ! 

* I '11 give you pardons from the Pope, 

And reliques from o'er the sea, — 
Or if for these you will not ope. 
Yet open for charity. 

* The hare is crouching in her form, 

The hart beside the hind; 
An aged man amid the storm, 
No shelter can I find. 

* You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, 

Dark, deep, and strong is he. 
And I must ford the Ettrick o'er. 
Unless you pity me. 

* The iron gate is bolted hard, 

At which I knock in vain; 
The owner's heart is closer iDarred, 
Who hears me thus complain. 

* Farewell, farewell ! and Mary grant. 

When old and frail you be. 

You never may the shelter want 

That 's now denied to me.' 

The ranger on his couch lay warm. 
And heard him plead in vain; 

But oft amid December's storm 
He '11 hear that voice again: 

For lo ! when through the vapors dank 

Morn shone on Ettrick fair, 
A corpse amid the alders rank, 

The Palmer weltered there. 



WANDERING WILLIE 



401 



THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 

* There is a tradition in Tweeddale,' says 
Scott, ' that, when Neidpath Castle, near Pee- 
bles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a 
mutual passion subsisted between a daughter 
of that noble family and a son of the Laird 
of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest. As the alli- 
ance was thought unsuitable by her parents, 
the young man went abroad. During his ab- 
sence the lady fell into a consumption ; and at 
length, as the only means of saving her life, 
her father consented that her lover should be 
recalled. On the day when he was expected 
to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushie- 
law, the young lady, though much exhausted, 
caused herself to be carried to the balcony of 
a house in Peebles belonging to the family, 
that she might see him as he rode past. Her 
anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her 
organs, that she is said to have distinguished 
his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. 
But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in 
her appearance, and not expecting to see her 
in that place, rode on without recognizing her, 
or even slackening his pace. The lady was 
unable to support the shock ; and, after a short 
struggle, died in the arms of her attendants-' 
Published, 1806, in Haydn* s Collection of Scot- 
tish Airs, 

O, lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 

And lovers' ears in hearing; 
And love in life's extremity 

Can lend an hour of cheering. 
Disease had been in Mary's bower, 

And slow decay from mourning, 
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower 

To watch her love's returning. 

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 

Her form decayed by pining, 
Till through her wasted hand at night 

You saw the taper shining; 
By fits, a sultry hectic hue 

Across her cheek were flying; 
By fits, so ashy pale she grew, 

Her maidens thought her dying. 

Yet keenest powers to see and hear 

Seemed in her frame residing; 
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear. 

She heard her lover's riding; 
Ere scarce a distant form was kenned. 

She knew, and waved to greet him; 
And o'er the battlement did bend, 

As on the wing to meet him. 



He came — he passed — an heedless gaze. 

As o'er some stranger glancing; 
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase. 

Lost in his courser's prancing — 
The castle arch, whose hollow tone 

Returns each whisper spoken. 
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan 

Which told her heart was broken. 



WANDERING WILLIE 

Published, 1806, in Haydn'' s Collection of 
Scottish Airs. 

All joy was bereft me the day that you left 
me, 
And climbed the tall vessel to sail yon 
wide sea; 
O weary betide it ! I wandered beside it, 
And banned it for parting my Willie and 
me. 

Far o'er the wave hast thou followed thy 
fortune. 
Oft fought the squadrons of France and 
of Spain; 
Ae kiss of welcome 's worth twenty at 
parting. 
Now I hae gotten my Willie again. 

When the sky it was mirk, and the winds 
they were wailing, 
I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my ee, 
And thought o' the bark where my Willie 
was sailing, 
And wished that the tempest could a* 
blaw on me. 

Now that thy gallant ship rides at her 
mooring, 
Now that my wanderer's in safety at 
hame. 
Music to me were the wildest winds' 
roaring, 
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark 
ocean faem. 

When the lights they did blaze, and the 
guns they did rattle. 
And blithe was each heart for the great 
victory. 
In secret I wept for the dangers of battle, 
And thy glory itself was scarce comfort 
to me. 



402 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly 
listen, 
Of each bold adventure and every brave 
scar; 
And trust me, I '11 smile, though my een 
they may glisten, 
For sweet after danger 's the tale of the 
war. 

And O, how we doubt when there 's dis- 
tance 'tween lovers. 
When there 's naething to speak to the 
heart thro' the ee ! 
How often the kindest and warmest prove 
rovers, 
And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like 
the sea ! 

Till, at times — could I help it ? — I pined 
and I pondered 
If love could change notes like the bird 
on the tree — 
Now I '11 ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae 
wandered; 
Enough, thy leal heart has been constant 
to me. 

Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and 
through channel, 
Hardships and danger despising for 
fame. 
Furnishing story for glory's bright an- 
nal, 
Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and 
hame ! 

Enough now thy story in annals of glory 
Has Immbled the pride of France, Hol- 
land, and Spain; 
No more shalt thou grieve me, no more 
shalt thou leave me, 
I never will part with my Willie again. 



HEALTH TO LORD MELVILLE 

Air — ' Carrickfergus ' 

* The impeachment of Lord Melville was 
among the first measures of the new (Whig^) 
Government ; and personal affection and grati- 
tude graced as well as heightened the zeal 
with which Scott watched the issue of this, in 
his eyes, vindictive proceeding ; but, though 
the ex-minister's ultimate acquittal was, as to 



all the charges involving his personal honor, 
complete, it must now be allowed that the in- 
vestigation brought out many circumstances 
by no means creditable to his discretion ; and 
the rejoicings of his friends ought not, there- 
fore, to have been scornfully jubilant. Such 
they were, however — at least in Edinburgh ; 
and Scott took his share in them by inditing a 
song, which was sung by James Ballantyne, 
and received with clamorous applauses, at a 
public dinner given in honor of the event, on 
the 27th of June, 1806.' — Lockhart's Life of 
Scottj Chapter xvi. 

Since here we are set in array round the 
table, 
Five hundred good fellows well met in a 
hall, 
Come listen, brave boys, and I *11 sing as 
I *m able. 
How iunocence triumphed and pride got 
afaU. 
But push round the claret — 
Come, stewards, don't spare it — 
With rapture you '11 drink to the toast that 
I give; 

Here, boys, 
Off with it merrily — 
Melville for ever, and long may he live ! 

What were the Whigs doing, when boldly 
pursuing, 
Pitt banished Rebellion, gave Treason a 
string; 
Why, they swore on their honor, for 
Arthur O'Connor, 
And fought hard for Despard against 
country and king. 
Well, then, we knew, boys, 
Pitt and Melville were true boys. 
And the tempest was raised by the friends 
of Reform. 
Ah ! woe ! 

Weep to his memory; 
Low lies the pilot that weathered the 
storm ! 

And pray, don't you mind when the Blues 
first were raising, 
And we scarcely could think the house 
safe o'er our heads ? 
When villains and coxcombs, French poli- 
tics praising. 
Drove peace from our tables and sleep 
from our beds ? 



HUNTING SONG 



403 



Our hearts they grew bolder 
When, musket on shoulder, 
Stepped forth our old Statesmen example 
to give. 

Come, boys, never fear. 
Drink the Blue grenadier — 
Here 's to old Harry, and long may he 
live ! 

They would turn us adrift, though rely, 
sir, upon it, 
Our own faithful chronicles warrant us 
that 
The free mountaineer and his bonny blue 
bonnet 
Have oft gone as far as the regular's 
hat. 
We laugh at their taunting, 
For all we are wanting 
Is license our life for our country to 
give. 

Off with it merrily 
Horse, foot, and artillery, 
Each loyal Volunteer, long may he live ! 

'T is not us alone, boys — the Army and 
Navy 
Have each got a slap 'mid their politic 
pranks ; 
Cornwallis cashiered, that watched winters 
to save ye, 
And the Cape called a bauble unworthy 
of thanks. 
But vain is their taunt, 
No soldier shall want 
The thanks that his country to valor can 
give: 

Come, boys. 
Drink it off merrily, — 
Sir David and Popham, and long may they 
live ! 

And then our revenue — Lord knows how 
they viewed it. 
While each petty statesman talked lofty 
and big; 
But the beer-tax was weak, as if Whit- 
bread had brewed it, 
And the pig-iron duty a shame to a 

In vain is their vaunting. 
Too surely there 's wanting 
What judgment, experience, and steadiness 
give: 

Come, boys, 



Drink about merrily, — 
Health to sage Melville, and long may he 
live ! 

Our King, too — our Princess — I dare not 
say more, sir, — 
May Providence watch them with mercy 
and might ! 
While there 's one Scottish hand that can 
wag a claymore, sir. 
They shall ne'er want a friend to stand 
up for their right. 
Be damned he that dare not, — 
For my part, I '11 spare not 
To beauty afflicted a tribute to give. 
Fill it up steadily. 
Drink it off readily — 
Here 's to the Princess, and long may she 
live ! 

And since we must not set Auld Reekie in 
glory. 
And make her brown visage as light as 
her heart; 
Till each man illumine his own upper 
story. 
Nor law-book nor lawyer shall force us 
to part. 
In Grenville and Spencer, 
And some few good men, sir. 
High talents we honor, slight difference 
forgive ; 

But the Brewer we '11 hoax, 
Tallyho to the Fox, 
And drink Melville for ever, as long as we 
live ! 



HUNTING SONG 

Published in Edinburgh Aiinual Register, 
1808. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

On the mountain dawns the day, 

All the jolly chase is here, 

With liawk and horse and hunting-spear ! 

Hounds are in their couples yelling, 

Iliiwks are whistling, horns are knelling, 

Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 

' Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
The mist has left the mountain ^v:iY, 
Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming: 



404 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And foresters have busy been 
To track the buck in thicket green; 
Now we come to chant our lay, 
' Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
To the green- wood haste away; 
We can show you where he lies. 
Fleet of foot and tall of size; 
We can show the marks he made, 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed; 
You shall see him brought to bay, 
* Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Louder, louder chant the lay, 
Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 
Tell them youth and mirth and glee 
Run a course as well as we; 
Time, stern huntsman, who can balk. 
Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk ? 
Think of this and rise with day, 
Gentle lords and ladies gay. 



SONG 

1808 

O, SAY not, my love, with that mortified air. 
That your spring-time of pleasure is 
flown. 
Nor bid me to maids that are younger 
repair 
For those raptures that still are thine 
own. 

Though April his temples may wreathe 
with the vine. 
Its tendrils in infancy curled, 
'T is the ardor of August matures us the 
wine 
Whose life-blood enlivens the world. 

Though thy form that was fashioned as 
light as a fay's 
Has assumed a proportion more round, 
And thy glance that was bright as a fal- 
con's at gaze 
Looks soberly now on the ground, — 

Enough, after absence to meet me again 
Thy steps still with ecstasy move; 

Enough, that those dear sober glances 
retain 
For me the kind language of love. 



THE RESOLVE 

WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF AN OLD 
ENGLISH POEM, 1809 

Scott wrote of this to his brother Thomas, 
who had guessed its authorship, when it was 
published anonymously : ' It is mine : and it is 
not — or, to be less enigmatical, it is an old 
fragment, which I coopered up into its present 
state with the purpose of quizzing certain 
judges of poetry, who have been extremely de- 
lighted, and declare that no living poet could 
write in the same exquisite taste.' 

My wayward fate I needs must plain, 

Though bootless be the theme; 
I loved and was beloved again, 

Yet all was but a dream: 
For, as her love was quickly got, 

So it was quickly gone; 
No more I '11 bask in flame so hot, 

But coldly dwell alone. 

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er 

My fancy shall beguile. 
By flattering word or feigned tear, 

By gesture, look, or smile: 
No more I '11 call the shaft fair shot, 

Till it has fairly flown. 
Nor scorch me at a flame so hot — 

I '11 rather freeze alone. 

Each ambushed Cupid I '11 defy 

In cheek or chin or brow. 
And deem the glance of woman's eye 

As weak as woman's vow: 
I '11 lightly hold the lady's heart, 

That is but lightly won; 
I '11 steel my breast to beauty's art, 

And learn to live alone. 

The flaunting torch soon blazes out. 

The diamond's ray abides; 
The flame its glory hurls about, 

The gem its lustre hides; 
Such gem I fondly deemed was mine, 

And glowed a diamond stone. 
But, since each eye may see it shine, 

I '11 darkling dwell alone. 

No waking dreams shall tinge my thought 

With dyes so bright and vain. 
No silken net so slightly wrought 

Shall tangle me again: 
No more I '11 pay so dear for wit, 

I '11 live upon mine own, 



PROLOGUE 



405 



Nor shall wild passion trouble it, — 
I '11 rather dwell alone. 

And thus I '11 hush my heart to rest, - 

* Thy loving labor 's lost ; 
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest, 

To be so strangely crost: 
The widowed turtles mateless die, 
The phcenix is but one; 
They seek no loves — no more will I - 

I '11 rather dwell alone.' 



EPITAPH 

DESIGNED FOR A MONUMENT IN LICH- 
FIELD CATHEDRAL, AT THE BURIAL- 
PLACE OF THE FAMILY OF MISS 
SEWARD 

1809 

Amid these aisles where once his precepts 

showed 
The heavenward pathway which in life he 

trode, 
This simple tablet marks a Father's bier. 
And those he loved in life in death are 

near; 
For him, for them, a Daughter bade it rise. 
Memorial of domestic charities. 
Still wouldst thou know why o'er the mar- 
ble spread 
In female grace the willow droops her 

head; 
Why on her branches, silent and unstrung. 
The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; 
What poet's voice is smothered here in 

dust 
Till waked to join the chorus of the just, — 
Lo ! one brief line an answer sad supplies, 
Honored, beloved, and mourned, here 

Seward lies ! 
Her worth, her warmth of heart, let 

friendship say, — 
Go seek her genius in her living lay. 

PROLOGUE 

TO MISS BAILLIE's PLAY OF * THE 
FAMILY LEGEND ' 

' The enclosed janglinp^ verses,' Scott writes 
to Lady Abercorn from Kdinbnr^h January 21, 
1810, ' are the only ofTorf, 1 hav(^ made in 
rhyme since I came to Edinbur^^li for the win- 
ter. They were written within this hour and 



are to be spoken to a beautiful tragedy of 
Joanna Baillie, founded upon a Highland 
story of the Old Time.' 

'T IS sweet to hear expiring Summer's 

sigh. 
Through forests tinged with russet, wail 

and die ; 
'T is sweet and sad the latest notes to hear 
Of distant music, dying on the ear; 
But far more sadly sweet on foreign strand 
We list the legends of our native land. 
Linked as they come with every tender tie, 
Memorials dear of youth and infancy. 

Chief thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, 
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy 

son. 
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil 
Or till Acadia's winter-fettered soil. 
He hears with throbbing heart and mois- 
tened eyes. 
And, as he hears, what dear illusions rise ! 
It opens on his soul his native dell. 
The woods wild waving and the water's 

swell; 
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats 

the plain. 
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; 
The cot beneath whose simple porch were 

told 
By gray-haired patriarch the tales of old, 
The infant group that hushed their sports 

the while. 
And the dear maid who listened with a 

smile. 
The wanderer, while the vision warms his 

brain, 
Is denizen of Scotland once again. 

Are such keen feelings to the crowd 
confined, 

And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind ? 

O no ! For she, within whoso mighty 
page 

Each tyrant Passion shows his woo and 
rage. 

Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, 

And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. 

Yourselves sliall judge — whoe'er has 
raised the sail 

By Mull's dark coast has heard this even- 
ing's tale. 

The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, 

Points to the fatal rock amid the roar 



4o6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to- 
night 

Our humble stage shall offer to your sight ; 

Proudly preferred that first our efforts 
give 

Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe 
and live; 

More proudly yet, should Caledon approve 

The filial token of a daughter's love. 



THE POACHER 

This imitation of Crabbe was published along 
with The Bridal of Triermain and Harold the 
Dauntless in the Edinburgh Ammal Register for 
1809. See siq:ira^ p. 283. Crabbe on seeing the 
verses said : ' This man, whoever he is, can do 
aU that I can, and something more,'* 

Welcome, grave stranger, to our green 

retreats 
Where health with exercise and freedom 

meets ! 
Thrice welcome, sage, whose philosophic 

plan 
By nature's limits metes the rights of 

man; 
Generous as he who now for freedom 

bawls, 
Now gives full value for true Indian 

shawls : 
O'er court, o'er custom-house, his shoe 

who flings, 
Now bilks excisemen and now bullies 

kings. 
Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind 
Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for man- 
kind : lo 
Thine eye applausive each sly vermin sees. 
That balks the snare yet battens on the 

cheese; 
Thine ear has heard with scorn instead of 

awe 
Our buckskinned justices expound the law. 
Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the 

pain, 
And for the netted partridge noose the 

swain; 
And thy vindictive arm would fain have 

broke 
The last light fetter of the feudal yoke, 
To give the denizens of wood and wild. 
Nature's free race, to each her free-born 

child. 20 



Hence hast thou marked with grief fair 

London's race, 
Mocked with the boon of one poor Easter 

chase, 
And longed to send them forth as free as 

when 
Poured o'er Chantilly the Parisian train, 
When musket, pistol, blunderbuss, com- 
bined. 
And scarce the field-pieces were left be- 
hind ! 
A squadron's charge each leveret's heart 

dismayed. 
On every covey fired a bold brigade; 
La Douce Humanite approved the sport, 
For great the alarm indeed, yet small the 
hurt; 30 

Shouts patriotic solemnized the day, 
And Seine re-echoed Vive la Liberie! 
But mad Citoyen, meek Monsieur again, 
With some few added links resumes his 

chain. 
Then, since such scenes to France no more 

are known. 
Come, view with me a hero of thine own, 
One whose free actions vindicate the cause 
Of sylvan liberty o'er feudal laws. 

Seek we yon glades where the proud oak 

o'ertops 39 

Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel copse, 

Leaving between deserted isles of land 

Where stunted heath is patched with ruddy 

sand. 
And lonely on the waste the yew is seen, 
Or straggling hollies spread a brighter 

green. 
Here, little worn and winding dark and 

steep, 
Our scarce marked path descends yon 

dingle deep: 
Follow — but heedful, cautious of a trip — 
In earthly mire philosophy may slip. 
Step slow and wary o'er that swampy 

stream. 
Till, guided by the charcoal's smothering 
steam, 5c 

We reach the frail yet barricaded door 
Of hovel formed for poorest of the poor; 
No hearth the fire, no vent the smoke re- 
ceives. 
The walls are wattles and the covering 

leaves; 
For, if such hut, our forest statutes say. 
Rise in the progress of one night and day — 



THE POACHER 



407 



Though placed where still the Conqueror's 

hests o'erawe, 
And his son's stirrup shines the badge of 

law — 
The builder claims the unenviable boon, 
To tenant dwelling, framed as slight and 

soon 60 

As wigwam wild that shrouds the native 

frore 
On the bleak coast of frost-barred Labrador. 

Approach and through the unlatticed 

window peep — 
Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep; 
Sunk mid yon sordid blankets till the sun 
Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils are 

done. 
Loaded and primed and prompt for desper- 
ate hand. 
Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand; 
While round the hut are in disorder laid 
The tools and booty of his lawless trade ; 70 
For force or fraud, resistance or escape, 
The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the 

crape. 
His pilfered powder in yon nook he hoards, 
And the filched lead the church's roof 

affords — 
Hence shall the rector's congregation fret, 
That while his sermon 's dry his walls are 

wet. 
The fish-spear barbed, the sweeping net are 

there. 
Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins 

of hare. 
Cordage for toils and wiring for the snare. 
Bartered for game from chase or warren 

won, 80 

Yon cask holds moonlight, run when moon 

was none; 
And late-snatched spoils lie stowed in hutch 

apart 
To wait the associate higgler's evening cart. 

Look on his pallet foul and mark his rest: 
What scenes perturbed are acting in his 

breast ! 
His sable brow is wet and wrung with pain, 
And his dilated nostril toils in vain; 
For short and scant the breath each effort 

draws. 
And 'twixt each effort Nature claims a 

pause. 
Beyond the loose and sable neckcloth 

stretched, 90 



His sinewy throat seems by convulsion 

twitched, 
While the tongue falters, as to utterance 

loath. 
Sounds of dire import — watchword, threat, 

and oath. 
Though, stupefied by toil and drugged with 

gin, 
The body sleep, the restless guest within 
Now plies on wood and wold his lawless 

trade. 
Now in the fangs of justice wakes dis- 
mayed. — 

*Was that wild start of terror and de- 
spair. 
Those bursting eyeballs and that wildered 
, air, 99 

Signs of compunction for a murdered hare? 
Do the locks bristle and the eyebrows 

arch 
For grouse or partridge massacred in 
March ? ' 

No, scoffer, no ! Attend, and mark with 

awe. 
There is no wicket in the gate of law ! 
He that would e'er so lightly set ajar 
That awful portal must undo each bar: 
Tempting occasion, habit, passion, pride, 
Will join to storm the breach and force the 

barrier wide. 

That ruffian, whom true men avoid and 

dread. 
Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call 

Black Ned, no 

Was Edward Mansell once ; — the lightest 

heart 
That ever played on holiday his part ! 
The leader he in every Christmas game, 
The harvest-feast grew blither when he 

came, 
And liveliest on the chords the bow did 

glance 
When Edward named the tune and led the 

dance. 
Kind was liis heart, his passions quick and 

strong, 
Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song; 
And if ho loved a gun, his father swore, 
* 'T was but a trick of youth would soon bo 

o'er, lao 

Himself had done the same some thirty 

years before.* 



4o8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



But he whose humors spurn law's awful 

yoke 
Must herd with those by whom law's bonds 

are broke; 
The common dread of justice soon allies 
The clown who robs the warren or excise 
With sterner felons trained to act more 

dread, 
Even with the wretch by whom his fellow 

bled. 
Then, as in plagues the foul contagions pass. 
Leavening and festering the corrupted 

mass. 
Guilt leagues with guilt while mutual mo- 
tives draw, 130 
Their hope impunity, their fear the law; 
Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous 

the same, 
Till the revenue balked or pilfered game 
Flesh the young culprit, and example leads 
To darker villany and direr deeds. 

Wild howled the wind the forest glades 

along, 
And oft the owl renewed her dismal song; 
Around the spot where erst he felt the 

wound, 
Red William's spectre walked his midnight 

round. 
When o'er the swamp he cast his blighting 

look, 140 

From the green marshes of the stagnant 

brook 
The bittern's sullen shout the sedges shook ! 
The waning moon with storm-presaging 

gleam 
Now gave and now withheld her doubtful 

beam; 
The old Oak stooped his arms, then flung 

them high. 
Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky, 
'T was then that, couched amid the brush- 
wood sear. 
In Malwood-walk young Mansell watched 

the deer: 
The fattest buck received his deadly shot — 
The watchful keeper heard and sought the 

spot. 150 

Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was 

their strife ; 
O'erpowered at length the Outlaw drew 

his knife. 
Next morn a corpse was found upon the 

fell — 
Thft rest hiQ waking agony may tell ! 



THE BOLD DRAGOON 

OR, THE PLAIN OF BADAJOS 






This song was written shortly after the bat- 
tle of Badajos, April, 1812, for a Yeomanry 
Cavalry dinner. 

'T WAS a Mardchal of France, and he fain 

would honor gain, 
And he longed to take a passing glance at 
Portugal from Spain; 
With his flying guns this gallant gay, 
And boasted corps d'armde — 
O, he feared not our dragoons with their 
long swords boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, etc. 

To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly sat 

down. 
Just a fricassee to pick while his soldiers 
sacked the town. 
When, 't was peste ! morbleu I mon 

G^ndral, 
Hear the English bugle-call ! 
And behold the light dragoons with their 
long swords boldly riding. 
Whack, fal de ral, etc. 

Right about went horse and foot, artillery 

and all. 
And, as the devil leaves a house, they tum- 
bled through the wall; 
They took no time to seek the door, 
But, best foot set before — 
O, they ran from our dragoons with their 
long swords boldly riding. 
Whack, fal de ral, etc. 

Those valiant men of France they had 

scarcely fled a mile. 
When on their flank there soused at once 
the British rank and file ; 
For Long, De Grey, and Otway then 
Ne'er minded one to ten. 
But came on like light dragoons with their 
long swords boldly riding. 
Whack, fal de ral, etc. 

Three hundred British lads they made 

three thousand reel. 
Their hearts were made of English oak, 
their swords of Sheffield steel. 
Their horses were in Yorkshire bred, 
And Beresford them led; 



SONG 



409 



So huzza for brave dragoons with their 
long swords boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, etc. 

Then here^s a health to Wellington, to 

Beresford, to Long, 
And a single word of Bonaparte before I 
close my song: 
The eagles that to fight he brings 
Should serve his men with wings. 
When they meet the bold dragoons with 
their long swords boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, etc. 



ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE 

1814 

* O, TELL me. Harper, wherefore flow 
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe 
Far down the desert of Glencoe, 

Where none may list their melody ? 
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, 
Or to the dun-deer glancing by. 
Or to the eagle that from high 

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy ? ' 

' No, not to these, for they have rest, — 
The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest, 
The stag his lair, the erne her nest, 

Abode of lone security. 
But those for whom I pour the lay, 
Not wild-wood deep nor mountain gray. 
Not this deep dell that shrouds from 
day. 

Could screen from treacherous cruelty. 

* Their flag was furled and mute their 

drum. 
The very household dogs were dumb, 
Unwont to bay at guests that come 

In guise of hospitality. 
His blithest notes the piper plied. 
Her gayest snood the maiden tied, 
The dame her distaff flung aside 

To tend her kindly housewifery. 

* The hand that mingled in the meal 
At midnight drew the felon steel. 
And gave the host's kind breast to feel 

Meed for his hospitality ! 
The friendly hearth wliicli warmed that 

hand 
A.t midnight armed it with the brand 



That bade destruction's flames expand 
Their red and fearful blazonry. 

* Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, 
Nor infancy's unpitied plain. 

More than the warrior's groan, could gain 

Respite from ruthless butchery ! 
The winter wind that whistled shrill. 
The snows that night that cloked the hill, 
Though wild and pitiless, had still 
Far more than Southern clemency. 

* Long have my harp's best notes been gone. 
Few are its strings and faint their tone, 
They can but sound in desert lone 

Their gray-haired master's misery. 
Were each gray hair a minstrel string. 
Each chord should imprecations fling. 
Till startled Scotland loud should ring, 

" Revenge for blood and treachery I " ' 

SONG 

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE 
PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND 

1814 

O, DREAD was the time, and more dread- 
ful the omen. 
When the brave on Marengo lay slaugh- 
tered in vain. 
And beholding broad Europe bowed down 
by her foemen, 
Pitt closed in his anguish the map of 
her reign ! 
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend 
his brave spirit 
To take for his country the safety of 
shame ; 
O, then in her triumph remember his merit, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to his 



Round the husbandman's head while ho 
traces the furrow 
The mists of the winter may mingle with 
rain, 
He may plough it with labor and sow it 
in sorrow, 
And sigh while ho fears ho has sowed it 
in vain; 
Ho may die ero his children shall reap in 
their gladness, 
But the blithe harvest-homo shall re- 
member his claim ; 



4IO 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And their jubilee-shout shall be softened 
with sadness, 
While they hallow the goblet that flows 
to his name. 

Though anxious and timeless his life was 
expended, 
In toils for our country preserved by his 
care. 
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations 
ascended, 
To light the long darkness of doubt and 
despair ; 
The storms he endured in our Britain's 
December, 
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'er- 
came. 
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain 
remember, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to his 
name. 

Nor forget His gray head who, all dark in 
affliction. 
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won, 
And to sounds the most dear to paternal 
affection, 
The shout of his people applauding his 
Son; 
By his firmness unmoved in success and 
disaster. 
By his long reign of virtue, remember 
his claim ! 
With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of 
his Master, 
Though a tear stain the goblet that flows 
to his name. 

Yet again fill the wine-cup and change the 
sad measure. 
The rites of our grief and our gratitude 
paid. 
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the 
bright treasure. 
The wisdom that planned, and the zeal 
that obeyed ! 
Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like his 
glory, 
Forget not our own brave Dalhousie 
and Gr.eme; 
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound 
at their story, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to their 
fame. 



LINES 

ADDRESSED TO RANALD MACDONALII 
ESQ., OF STAFFA ] 

These lines were written in the album ke 
at the Sound of Ulva Inn, in the month of A. 
gust, 1814. 

Staffa, sprung from high Macdonald, 
Worthy branch of old Clan-Banald ! 
Staffa ! king of all kind fellows ! 
Well befall thy hills and valleys, 
Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows — 
Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder, 
Echoing the Atlantic thunder; 
Mountains which the gray mist covers, 
Where the Chieftain spirit hovers, 
Pausing while his pinions quiver, 
Stretched to quit our land forever ! 
Each kind influence reign above thee ! 
Warmer heart 'twixt this and Staffa 
Beats not than in heart of Staffa ! 



PHAROS LOQUITUR 

Robert Stevenson, grandfather of Robert 
Louis Stevenson, built, amongst others, the Bell! 
Rock Lighthouse. Scott visited the place with 
Stevenson and the commissioners, July 30, 1814 
and wrote these lines in the album kept there. 

Far in the bosom of the deep, 

O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep j 

A ruddy gem of changeful light. 

Bound on the dusky brow of night, 

The seaman bids my lustre hail. 

And scorns to strike his timorous saiL 



LETTER IN VERSE 



on the voyage with the COMMISSION' 
ERS OF NORTHERN LIGHTS J 

* Of the letters which Scott wrote to his f riendaj 
during those happy six weeks, I have recov- 
ered only one, and it is, thanks to the leisure of 
the yacht, in verse. The strong and easy hero- 
ics of the first section prove, I think, that Mr. 
Canning did not err when he told him that if 
he chose he might emulate even Dryden's com- 
mand of that noble measure ; and the dancing 
anapaests of the second show that he could 
with equal facility have rivalled the gay graces 



\ 



LETTER IN VERSE 



411 



of Cotton, Anstey, or Moore.' — Lockhart, Life^ 
Chapter xxxiii. 

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH 

Lighthouse Yacht in the Sound of Lerwick, 
Zetland, 8th August, 1814. 

Health to the chieftain from his clans- 
man true I 

From her true minstrel, health to fair 
Buccleuch ! 

Health from the isles where dewy Morning 
weaves 

Her chaplet with the tints that Twilight 
leaves; 

Where late the sun scarce vanished from 
the sight, 

And his bright pathway graced the short- 
lived night, 

Though darker now as autumn's shades 
extend 

The north winds whistle and the mists 
ascend ! 

Health from the land where eddying whirl- 
winds toss 

The storm-rocked cradle of the Cape of 
Noss ; 10 

On outstretched cords the giddy engine 
slides, 

His own strong arm the bold adventurer 
guides. 

And he that lists such desperate feat to 
try 

May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt surf 
and sky, 

And feel the mid-air gales around him 
blow. 

And see the billows rage five hundred feet 
below. 

Here, by each stormy peak and desert 

shore, 
The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar, 
Practised alike his venturous course to 

keep 
Through the white breakers or the pathless 

deep, 20 

By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain 
A wretched pittance from the niggard 

main. 
And when the worn-out drudge old ocean 

leaves. 
What comfort greets him and what hut 

receives ? 
Lady ! the worst your presence ere has 

cheered — 



When want and sorrow fled as you ap- 
peared — 

Were to a Zetlander as the high dome 

Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home. 

Here rise no groves and here no gardens 
blow. 

Here even the hardy heath scarce dares to 
grow; 30 

But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm 
arrayed, 

Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade. 

With many a cavern seamed, the dreary 
haunt 

Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant. 

Wild round their rifted brows, with fre- 
quent cry 

As of lament, the gulls and gannets fly. 

And from their sable base with sullen 
sound 

In sheets of whitening foam the waves re- 
bound. 

Yet even these coasts a touch of envy 
gain 

From those whose land has known oppres- 
sion's chain; 40 

For here the industrious Dutchman comes, 
once more 

To moor his fishing craft by Bressay's 
shore. 

Greets every former mate and brother tar. 

Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of 
war. 

Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage done. 

And ends by blessing God and Wellington. 

Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest. 

Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest; 

Proves each wild frolic that in wine has 
birth. 

And wakes the land with brawls and bois- 
terous mirth. 50 

A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow 

The captive Norseman sits in silent woe. 

And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow. 

Hard fate of war, which bade her terrors 
sway 

His destined course and seize so mean a 
prey, 

A bark with planks so warped and seams 
so riven 

She scarce might face the gentlest airs of 
heaven: 

Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none 

Can list his speech and understand his 
moan; 



412 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



In vain — no Islesman now can use the 
tongue 60 

Of the bold Norse from whom their lineage 
sprung. 

Not thus of old the Norsemen hither came, 

Won by the love of danger or of fame ; 

On every storm-beat cape a shapeless 
tower 

Tells of their wars, their conquests, and 
their power; 

For ne'er for Grecia's vales nor Latian 
land 

Was fiercer strife than for this barren 
strand ; 

A race severe, the isle and ocean lords 

Loved for its own delight the strife of 
swords ; 

With scornful laugh the mortal pang de- 
fied, 70 

And blest their gods that they in battle 
died. 

Such were the sires of Zetland's simple 

race. 
And still the eye may faint resemblance 

trace 
In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair. 
The limbs athletic, and the long light 

hair — 
Such was the mien, as Scald and Minstrel 

sings. 
Of fair-haired Harold, first of Norway's 

Kings; — 
But their high deeds to scale these crags 

confined, 
Their only welfare is with waves and wind. 

Why should I talk of Mousa's castle 
coast ? 80 

Why of the horrors of the Sunburgh E,ost ? 

May not these bald disjointed lines suf- 
fice, 

Penned while my comrades whirl the rat- 
tling dice — 

While down the cabin skylight lessening 
shine 

The rays, and eve is chased with mirth and 
wine ? 

Imagined, while down Mousa's desert bay 

Our well-trimmed vessel urged her nimble 
way. 

While to the freshening breeze she leaned 
her side, 

And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy 
tide? 



Such are the lays that Zetland Isles 
supply; 90 

Drenched with the drizzly spray and drop- 
ping sky. 
Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I. 

W, Scott. 

POSTSCRIPTUM 

Kirkwall, Orkney, Aug. 13, 1814. 

In respect that your Grace has com- 
missioned a Kraken, 

You will please be informed that they sel- 
dom are taken; 

It is January two years, the Zetland folks 
say, 

Since they saw the last Kraken in Scallo- 
way bay; 

He lay in the offing a fortnight or more, 

But the devil a Zetlander put from the 
shore. 

Though bold in the seas of the North to 



The morse and the sea-horse, the grampus 

and whale. 100 

If your Grace thinks I 'm writing the thing 

that is not. 
You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. 

Scott — 
He 's not from our clan, though his merits 

deserve it, 
But springs, I 'm informed, from the Scotts 

of Scotstarvet; — 
He questioned the folks who beheld it with 

eyes. 
But they differed confoundedly as to its 

size. 
For instance, the modest and diffident 

swore 
That it seemed like the keel of a ship and 

no more — 
Those of eyesight more clear or of fancy 

more high 
Said it rose like an island 'twixt ocean and 

sky — no 

But all of the hulk had a steady opinion 
That 't was sure a live subject of Neptune's 

dominion — 
And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace 

hardly would wish. 
To cumber your house, such a kettle of fish, 
Had your order related to night-caps or 

hose 
Or mittens of worsted, there 's plenty of 

those. 



SONGS AND VERSES FROM WAVERLEY 



413 



Or would you be pleased but to fancy a 

whale ? 
And direct me to send it — by sea or by 

mail? 
The season, I 'm told, is nigh over, but 

still 
I could get you one fit for the lake at 

Bowhill. 120 

Indeed, as to whales, there 's no need to 

be thrifty, 
Since one day last fortnight two hundred 

and fifty. 
Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and 

no more, 
Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were 

drawn on the shore ! 
You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful 

sight; 
I own that I did not, but easily might — 
For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay 
On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the 

bay, 
And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the 

spoil, 
And flinching — so term it — the blubber 

to boil; — 130 

Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflec- 
tion 
That awakes at the thoughts of this odor- 
ous dissection. — 
To see this huge marvel full fain would we 

go, 
But Wilson, the wind, and the current 

said no. 
We have now got to Kirkwall, and needs I 

must stare 
When I think that in verse I have once 

called it fair ; 
'T is a base little borough, both dirty and 

mean — 
There is nothing to hear and there's 

nought to be seen. 
Save a church where of old times a prelate 

harangued. 
And a palace that 's built by an earl that 

was hanged. 140 

But farewell to Kirkwall — aboard we are 

going, 
The anchor 's a-peak and the breezes are 

blowing; 
Our commodore calls all his band to their 

places, 
And 't is time to release you — good-night 

to your Graces ! 



SONGS AND VERSES FROM 
WAVERLEY 

So much of the preceding prose is given 
with these separate pieces as will furnish the 
needed setting. 



*AND DID YE NOT HEAR OF A MIRTH 
BEFELL ' 

To the tune of * I have been a Fiddler^'' etc, 

' The following song, which has been since 
borrowed by the worshipful author of the fa- 
mous " History of Fryar Bacon," has been with 
difficulty deciphered. It seems to have been 
sung on occasion of carrying home the bride. — 
Appendix to General Preface, 

And did ye not hear of a mirth befell 
The morrow after a wedding day. 

And carrying a bride at home to dwell ? 
And away to Tewin, away, away. 

The quintain was set, and the garlands 
were made, 
'Tis pity old customs should ever decay; 
And woe be to him that was horsed on a 
jade. 
For he carried no credit away, away. 

We met a concert of fiddle-de-dees; 

We set them a-cockhorse, and made 
them play 
The winning of BuUen, and Upsey-frees, 

And away to Tewin, away, away 1 

There was ne'er a lad in all the parish 
That would go to the plough that day; 

But on his fore-horse liis wench he carries, 
And away to Tewin, away, away ! 

The butler was quick, and the ale he did 
tap, 
The maidens did make the chamber full 
gay; 
The servants did give me a fuddling cup. 
And I did carry 't away, away. 

The smith of the town his liquor so took, 
That he was persuaded that the ground 
looked blue; 

And I dare boldly be sworn on a book, 
Such smiths as he there 's but a few. 



414 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



A posset was made, and the women did sip, 
And simpering said, they could eat no 
more; 

Full many a maiden was laid on the lip, — 
I '11 say no more, but give o'er, give o'er. 



'LATE, WHEN 



II 

the autumn 
fell' 



EVENING 



From Chapter v. ' His tutor, or, I should 
say, Mr. Pembroke, for he scarce assumed the 
name of tutor, picked up about Edward's 
room some fragments of iiTegular verse, which 
he appeared to have composed under the influ- 
ence of the agitating- feeliugs occasioned by 
this sudden page being turned up to him in 
the book of life, i. e., his being appointed cap- 
tain in a regiment of dragoons.' 

Late, when the autumn evening fell 
On Mirkwood-Mere's romantic dell. 
The lake returned, in chastened gleam. 
The purple cloud, the golden beam: 
Reflected in the crystal pool. 
Headland and bank lay fair and cool; 
The weather-tinted rock and tower. 
Each drooping tree, each fairy flower, 
So true, so soft, the mirror gave. 
As if there lay beneath the wave, 
Secure from trouble, toil, and care, 
A world than earthly world more fair. 

But distant winds began to wake. 
And roused the Genius of the Lake ! 
He heard the groaning of the oak. 
And donned at once his sable cloak, 
As warrior, at the battle cry, 
Li vests him with his panoply: 
Then, as the whirlwind nearer pressed, 
He 'gan to shake his foamy crest 
O'er furrowed brow and blackened cheek. 
And bade his surge in thunder speak. 
In wild and broken eddies whirled, 
Flitted that fond ideal world; 
And, to the shore in tumult tost. 
The realms of fairy bliss were lost. 

Yet, with a stern delight and strange, 
I saw the spirit-stirring change 
As warred the wind with wave and wood. 
Upon the ruined tower I stood. 
And felt my heart more strongly bound, 
Responsive to the lofty sound. 
While, joying in the mighty roar, 
I mourned that tranquil scene no more. 



So, on the idle dreams of youth 
Breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth. 
Bids each fair vision pass away. 
Like landscape on the lake that lay. 
As fair, as flitting, and as frail. 
As that which fled the autumn gale — 
For ever dead to fancy's eye 
Be each gay form that glided by, 
While dreams of love and lady's charms 
Give place to honor and to arms ! 

Ill 

' THE KNIGHT 'S TO THE MOUNTAIN ' 

From Chapter ix. ' — The questioned party 
replied, — and, like the witch of Thiaba, 
" still his speech was song." ' 

The knight 's to the mountain 

His bugle to wind; 
The lady 's to greenwood 

Her garland to bind. 
The bower of Burd Ellen 

Has moss on the floor. 
That the step of Lord William 

Be silent and sure. 



IV 

' IT 'S UP GLEMBARCHAN'S braes I GAED ' 

From Chapter xi. ' Balmawhapple could 
hold no longer, but broke in what he called 
a d — d good song, composed by Gibby Caeth- 
rowit, the Piper of Cupar; and, without wasting 
more time, struck up,' — 

It 's up Glembarchan's braes I gaed. 
And o'er the bent of Killiebraid, 
And mony a weary cast I made 
To cuittle the moor-fowl's tail. 

If up a bonny black-cock should spring. 
To whistle him down wi' a slug in his 

wing. 
And strap him on to my lunzie string. 
Right seldom would I fail. 



' HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY ' 

From Chapter xii. ' The stamping of horses 
was now heard in the court, and Davie's voice 
singing to the two large deer greyhounds,' — 

Hie away, hie away, 
Over bank and over brae. 



SONGS AND VERSES FROM WAVERLEY 



415 



There the ^opsewood is the greenest, 
There the fountains gHsten sheenest, 
There the lady-fern grows strongest, 
There the morning dew Hes longest. 
There the black-cock sweetest sips it, 
There the fairy latest trips it: 

Hie to haunts right seldom seen, 

Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, 

Over bank and over brae, 

Hie away, hie away. 



VI 

ST. swithin's chair 

'rem Chapter xiii. *The view of the old 
tower, or fortalice, introduced some family an- 
ecdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which 
the Baron told with great enthusiasm. The 
projecting peak of an impending crag, which 
rose near it, had acquired the name of St. 
Swithin's Chair. It was the scene of a peculiar 
superstition, of which Mr. Kubrick mentioned 
some curious particulars, which reminded Wa- 
verley of a rhyme quoted by Edgar in King 
Lear ; and Rose was called upon to sing a little 
legend in which they had been interwoven by 
some village poet, — 

" Who, nameless as the race from which he sprung, 
Saved other names, but left his own unsimg." 

* The sweetness of her voice, and the simple 
beauty of her music, gave all the advantage 
which the minstrel could have desired, and 
which his poetry so much wanted.' 

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to 

rest. 
Ever beware that your couch be blessed ; 
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead. 
Sing the Ave and say the Creed. 

For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag 

will ride, 
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her 

side, 
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud, 
Sailing through moonshine or swathed in 

the cloud. 

The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair, 
The dew of the night has damped her 

hair: 
Her cheek was pale, but resolved and high 
Was the word of her lip and the glance of 

her eye. 



She muttered the spell of S within bold, 
When his naked foot traced the midnight 

wold. 
When he stopped the Hag as she rode the 

night. 
And bade her descend and her promise 

plight. 

He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair 
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled 

air, 
Questions three, when he speaks the spell, 
He may ask, and she must tell. 

The Baron has been with King Robert his 

liege. 
These three long years in battle and siege; 
News are there none of his weal or his 

woe. 
And fain the Lady his fate would know. 

She shudders and stops as the charm she 

speaks ; — 
Is it the moody owl that shrieks ? 
Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and 

scream. 
The voice of the Demon who haunts the 

stream ? 

The moan of the wind sunk silent and low, 
And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow; 
The calm was more dreadful than raging 

storm. 
When the cold gray mist brought the 

ghastly form ! 



VII 

'young men will love thee more 

FAIR AND more FAST ' 

From Chapter xiv. ' The next day Edward 
arose betimes, and, in a niornini;- walk around 
the house and its vicinity, came suddenly upon 
a small court in front of the do^-keunel, where 
liis friend Davie wjis employed al>t)ut Ins four- 
footed eharpfe. One quick jjlanee of his vye 
recopiized Waverley, when, instantly turning 
his back, as if he had not observed hiiu, he he- 
g^an to sing part of an old ballad.' 

Young men will love thee more fair and 
more fast I 
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing f 



4i6 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Old men's love the longest will last, 
And the throstle-cock^ s head is under his 
wing. 

The young man's wrath is like light straw 
on fire; 
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing f 
But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire, 
And the throstle-cock^ s head is under his 
wing. 

The young man will brawl at the evening 
board ; 
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing f 
But the old man will draw at the dawning 
the sword. 
And the throstle-cock^ s head is under his 
wing, 

VIII 

FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG 

From Chapter xxii. 

There is mist on the mountain, and night 

on the vale, 
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of 

the Gael. 
A stranger commanded — it sunk on the 

land, 
It has frozen each heart and benumbed 

every hand ! 

The dirk and the target lie sordid with 

dust. 
The bloodless claymore is but reddened 

with rust; 
On the hill or the glen if a gun should 

appear. 
It is only to war with the heath-cock or 

deer. 

The deeds of our sires if our bards should 

rehearse. 
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their 

verse ! 
Be mute every string and be hushed every 

tone 
That shall bid us remember the fame that 

is flown ! 

But the dark hours of night and of slumber 

are past. 
The morn on our mountains is dawning at 

last; 



Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the 

rays. 
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright 

in the blaze. 

O high-minded Moray ! — the exiled — the 

dear ! — 
In the blush of the dawning the Standard 



uprear 



Wide, wide to the winds of the north let it 

%. 

Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest 
is nigh ! 

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning 
shall break, 

Need the harp of the aged remind you to 
wake ? 

That dawn never beamed on your fore- 
fathers' eye. 

But it roused each high chieftain to van- 
quish or die. 

O, sprung from the Kings who in Islay 

kept state. 
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, and 

Sleat ! 
Combine like three streams from one 

mountain of snow. 
And resistless in union rush down on the 

foe! 

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, 
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish 

thy steel ! 
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's 

bold swell. 
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell ! 

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of 

Kintail, 
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in 

the gale ! 
May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless 

and free, 
Remember Glenlivet, Harlaw, and Dundee ! 

Let the clan of gray Fingon, whose offspring 

has given 
Such heroes to earth and such martyrs to 

heaven. 
Unite with the race of renowned Rorri 

More, 
To launch the long galley and stretch to 

the oar ! 



SONGS AND VERSES FROM WAVERLEY 



417 



How MaC"Shimei will joy when their chief 
shall display 

The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of 
gray ! 

How the race of wronged Alpine and mur- 
dered Glencoe 

Shall shout for revenge when they pour on 
the foe ! 

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the 

wild boar, 
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum- 

More ! 
Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the 

Lake, 
For honor, for freedom, for vengeance 

awake ! 

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake. 
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and 

the lake ! 
'T is the bugle — but not for the chase is 

the call; 
'T is the pibroch's shrill summons — but not 

to the hall. 

'T is the summons of heroes for conquest or 

death. 
When the banners are blazing on mountain 

and heath; 
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the 

targe. 
To the march and the muster, the line and 

the charge. 

Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in 

his ire ! 
May the blood through his veins flow like 

currents of fire ! 
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires 

did of yore ! 
Or die like your sires, and endure it no 

more I 



IX 



TO AN OAK TREE 

IN THE CHURCHYARD OF , IN THE HIGH- 
LANDS OF SCOTLAND, SAID TO MARK THE 
GRAVE OF CAPTAIN WOGAN, KILLED IN 1649. 

From Chapter xxix. * The letter from the 
Chief contained Flora's lines on the fate of 
Captain Wogan, whose enterprising: cliaracter 
is 80 well drawn by Clarendon, lie had origi- 



nally engaged in the service of the Parliament, 
but had abjured that party upon the execution 
of Charles I. ; and upon hearing that the royal 
standard was set up by the Earl of Glencairn 
and General Middleton in the Highlands of 
Scotland, took leave of Charles II., who was 
then at Paris, passed into England, assembled 
a body of cavaliers in the neighbourhood of 
London, and traversed the kingdom, which had 
been so long under domination of the usurper, 
by marches conducted with such skill, dex- 
terity, and spirit, that he safely united his 
handful of horsemen with the body of High- 
landers then in arms. After several months of 
desultory warfare, in which Wogan's skill and 
courage gained him the highest reputation, he 
had the misfortune to be wounded in a danger- 
ous manner, and no surgical assistance being 
within reach, he terminated his short but glori- 



ous career.' 



Emblem of England's ancient faith. 
Full proudly may thy branches wave, 

Where loyalty lies low in death, 
And valor fills a timeless grave. 

And thou, brave tenant of the tomb ! 

Repine not if our clime deny. 
Above thine honored sod to bloom, 

The flowerets of a milder sky. 

These owe their birth to genial May; 

Beneath a fiercer sun they pine, 
Before the winter storm decay — 

And can their worth be type of thine ? 

No ! for 'mid storms of Fate opposing. 
Still higher swelled thy dauntless heart, 

And, while Despair the scene was clos- 
ing, 
Commenced thy brief but brilliant part. 

'T was then thou sought'st on Albyn's hill, 
(When England's sons the strife re- 
signed,) 

A rugged race resisting still, 

And unsubdued, though unrefined. 

Thy death's hour heard no kindred wail, 
No holy knell thy requiem rung; 

Thy mourners were the plaided Gael, 
Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung. 

Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine 
To waste life's longest term away, 

Would change that glorious dawn of thine 
Though darkened ere its noontide day ? 



4i8 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Be thine the Tree whose dauntless boughs 
Brave summer^s drought and winter's 
gloom ! 

Kome bound with oak her patriot's brows, 
As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb. 



*WE ARE BOUND TO DRIVE THE BUL- 
LOCKS' 

From Chapter xxxviii. ' The clan of Mac- 
Farlane, occupying the fastnesses of the west- 
ern side of Loch Lomond, were great depreda- 
tors on the Low Country; and as their excursions 
were made usually by night, the moon was 
proverbially called their lantern. Their cele- 
brated pibroch of Hoggil nam Bo, which is the 
name of their gathering tune, intimates similar 
practices, — the sense being ' — 

We are bound to drive the bullocks, 
All by hollows, hirsts, and hillocks, 

Through the sleet and through the rain. 
When the moon is beaming low 
On frozen lake and hills of snow. 
Bold and heartily we go. 

And all for little gain. 



XI 

^ BUT FOLLOW, FOLLOW ME ' 

From Chapter bdii. 

But follow, follow me. 
While glow-worms light the lea, 
I'll show ye where the dead should be — 
Each in his shroud, 
While winds pipe loud. 
And the red moon peeps dim through the 
cloud. 

Follow, follow me: 
Brave should he be 
That treads by the night the dead man's 
lea. 



FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT 

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE 

Sung at the first meeting of the Pitt Club of 
Scotland and published in the Scots Magazine 
for July, 1814. Scott wrote two songs for the 



anniversary of the death of Pitt, this and the 
one on page 409. This one, though not printed 
till July, 1814, was written for the celebration 
in December, 1813. 

Though right be aft put down by 
strength, 

As mony a day we saw that. 
The true and leilf u' cause at length 

Shall bear the grie for a' that ! 
For a' that an' a' that. 

Guns, guillotines, and a' that. 
The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right, 

Is queen again for a' that ! 

We '11 twine her in a friendly knot 

With England's Rose, and a' that; 
The Shamrock shall not be forgot. 

For Wellington made bra' that. 
The Thistle, though her leaf be rude. 

Yet faith we '11 no misca' that. 
She sheltered in her solitude 

The Fleur-de-lis, for a' that. 

The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine, 

(For Blucher's sake, hurra that,) 
The Spanish Olive, too, shall join, 

And bloom in peace for a' that. 
Stout Russia's Hemp, so surely twined 

Around our wreath we '11 draw that. 
And he that would the cord unbind, 

Shall have it for his gra-vat ! 

Or, if to choke sae puir a sot, 

Your pity scorn to thraw that, 
The Devil's elbo' be his lot. 

Where he may sit and claw that. 
In spite of slight, in spite of might. 

In spite of brags and a' that. 
The lads that battled for the right, 

Have won the day and a' that ! 



There 's ae bit spot I had forgot, 

America they ca' that ! 
A coward plot her rats had got 

Their father's flag to gnaw that: 
Now see it fly top-gallant high, 

Atlantic winds shall blaw that. 
And Yankee loon, beware your croun. 

There 's kames in hand to claw that ! 

For on the land, or on the sea. 
Where'er the breezes blaw that. 

The British Flag shall bear the grie, 
And win the day for a' that ! 



I 



IMITATION 



419 



{FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE 

HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL 
FROM THE GAELIC 

* The original verses,' says Scott, * are 
arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which 
the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon 
the oars of a galley, and which is therefore 
distinct from the ordinary jorums, or boat- 
songs. They were composed by the Family 
Bard upon the departure of the Earl of Sea- 
forth, who was obliged to take refuge in 
Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrec- 
tion in favor of the Stuart family, in the year 
1718.' Written by Scott in 1815. 

Farewell to Mackenneth, great Earl of 

the North, 
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glensbiel, and 

Seaforth; 
To the Chieftain this morning his course 

who began, 
Launching forth on the billows his bark 

like a swan. 
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his 

sail, 
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail ! 

O, swift be the galley and hardy her 

crew. 
May her captain be skilful, her mariners 

true, 
In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil. 
Though the whirlwind should rise and the 

ocean should boil: 
On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his 

bonail, 
And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail ! 

Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet south- 
land gale ! 

Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft 
on his sail ; 

Be prolonged as regret that his vassals 

must know, 
-Be fair as their faith and sincere as their 
woe: 

Be so soft and so fair and so faithful, 
sweet gale, 

Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of 
Kintail ! 



Be his pilot experienced and trusty and 

wise. 
To measure the seas and to study the 

skies: 
May he hoist all his canvas from streamer 

to deck. 
But O ! crowd it higher when wafting him 

back — 
Till the cliffs of Skooroora and Conan's 

glad vale 
Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail ! 



IMITATION 

OF THE PRECEDING SONG 

WRITTEN IN 1815 

* These verses,' one of Scott's editors ex- 
plains, ' were written shortly after the death of 
Lord Seaforth, the last male representative 
of his illustrious house. He was a nobleman 
of extraordinary talents, who must have made 
for himself a lasting reputation, had not his 
political exertions been checked by the painful 
natural infirmities alluded to in the fourth 
stanza.' The ' gentle dame ' of the last stanza 
was Lady Hood, daughter of the last Lord 
Seaforth, widow of Admiral Sir Samuel Hood, 
and later Mrs. Stewart Mackenzie of Seaford 
and Glasserton. 

So sung the old bard in the grief of his 

heart 
When he saw his loved lord from his 

people depart. 
Now mute on thy mountains, O Albyn, are 

heard 
Nor the voice of the song nor the harp of 

the bard; 
Or its strings are but waked by the stern 

winter gale. 
As they mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief 

of Kintail. 

From the far Southland Border a minstrel 

canu' forth, 
And he waited the hour that some bard of 

the north 
His hand on the harp of the ancient should 

cast. 
And bid its wild numbers mix high with 

the blast; 



42 o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



But no bard was there left in the land of 

the Gael 
To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief of 

Kintail. 

* And shalt thou then sleep,' did the min- 

strel exclaim, 

* Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by 

fame ? 
N'o, son of Fitzgerald ! in accents of 

woe 
The song thou hast loved o'er thy coffin 

shall flow, 
And teach thy wild mountains to join in 

the wail 
That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief of 

Kintail. 

* In vain, the bright course of thy talents 

to wrong, 
Fate deadened thine ear and imprisoned 

thy tongue; 
For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose 
The glow of the genius they could not 

oppose; 
And who in the land of the Saxon or 

Gael 
Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief 

of Kintail ? 

* Thy sons rose around thee in light and in 

love. 
All a father could hope, all a friei^d could 

approve ; 
What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to 

tell,— 
In the spring-time of youth and of promise 

they fell ! 
Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a 

male 
To bear the proud name of the Chief of 

Kintail. 

* And thou, gentle dame, who must bear to 

thy grief 
For thy clan and thy country the cares of 

a chief. 
Whom brief rolling moons in six changes 

have left, 
Of thy husband and father and brethren 

bereft, 
To thine ear of affection how sad is the 

hail 
That salutes thee the heir of the line of 

Kintail I ' 



WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN 

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN 
FROM THE GAELIC 

Like the preceding this was translated in 
1815 and prefaced thus by Scott : ^ This song 
appears to be imperfect, or, at least, like 
many of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid 
transition from one subject to another ; from 
the situation, namely, of one of the daughters 
of the clan, who opens the song by lamenting 
the absence of her lover, to an eulogium over 
the military glories of the Chieftain. The 
translator has endeavored to imitate the abrupt 
style of the original. 

A WEARY month has wandered o'er 
Since last we parted on the shore; 
Heaven ! that I saw thee, love, once more, 

Safe on that shore again ! — 
'T was valiant Lachlan gave the word: 
Lachlan, of many a galley lord: 
He called his kindred bands on board, 

And launched them on the main. 

Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone ; 
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known; 
Rejoicing in the glory won 

In many a bloody broil: 
For wide is heard the thundering fray, 
The rout, the ruin, the dismay. 
When from the twilight glens away 

Clan-Gillian drives the spoil. 

Woe to the hills that shall rebound 

Our bannered bag - pipes' maddening 

sound ! 
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round. 

Shall shake their inmost cell. 
Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze 
Where Lachlan 's silken streamer plays ! 
The fools might face the lightning's blaze 

As wisely and as well ! 

SAINT CLOUD ^ 

This poem was written at Paris, 5th Septem- 
ber. 1815, after an evening spent at St. Cloud, 
with Lady Alvanley and her daughters, one of 
whom was the songstress referred to in the last 
stanza but one. 

Soft spread the southern summer night 

Her veil of darksome blue; 
Ten thousand stars combined to light 

The terrace of Saint Cloud. 



THE DANCE OF DEATH 



421 



The evening breezes gently sighed, 

Like breath of lover true, 
Bewailing the deserted pride 

And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud. 

The drum's deep roll was heard afar, 

The bugle wildly blew 
Good-night to Hulan and Hussar 

That garrison Saint Cloud. 

The startled Naiads from the shade 

With broken urns withdrew, 
And silenced was that proud cascade, 

The glory of Saint Cloud. 

We sate upon its steps of stone, 

Nor could its silence rue. 
When waked to music of our own 

The echoes of Saint Cloud. 

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note 

Fall light as summer dew. 
While through the moonless air they float, 

Prolonged from fair Saint Cloud. 

And sure a melody more sweet 

His waters never knew. 
Though music's self was wont to meet 

With princes at Saint Cloud. 

Nor then with more delighted ear 

The circle round her drew 
Than ours, when gathered round to hear 

Our songstress at Saint Cloud. 

Few happy hours poor mortals pass, — 
Then give those hours their due. 

And rank among the foremost class 
Our evenings at Saint Cloud. 



THE DANCE OF DEATH 

In a letter to Morritt, October 2, 1815, Scott 
writes, ' Out of my Field of Waterloo has 
sprung an odd, wild sort of thing-, which I in- 
tend to finish separately, and call it " Tlio 
Dance of Death." ' 

Night and morning were at meeting 

Over Waterloo; 
Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; 

Faint and low they crew, 
For no paly beam yet shone 
On the heights of Mount Saint John; 



Tempest-clouds prolonged the sway 
Of timeless darkness over day; 
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower 
Marked it a predestined hour. 10 

Broad and frequent through the night 
Flashed the sheets of levin-light; 
Muskets, glancing lightnings back, 
Showed the dreary bivouac 

Where the soldier lay, 
Chill and stiff and drenched with rain, 
Wishing dawn of morn again. 

Though death should come with day. 

'T is at such a tide and hour 
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, 20 
And ghastly forms through mist and 
shower 

Gleam on the gifted ken; 
And then the affrighted prophet's ear 
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear, 
Presaging death and ruin near 

Among the sons of men; — 
Apart from Albyn's war-array, 
'T was then gray Allan sleepless lay; 
Gray Allan, who for many a day 

Had followed stout and stern, 3c 

Where, through battle's rout and reel. 
Storm of shot and edge of steel, 
Led the grandson of Lochiel, 

Valiant Fassiefern. 
Through steel and shot he leads no more, 
Low laid mid friends' and foemen's gore — 
But long his native lake's wild shore. 
And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower, 

And Morven long shall tell, 
And proud Bennevis hear with awe, 40 

How upon bloody Quatre-Bras 
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra 

Of conquest as he fell. 

Lone on the outskirts of the host. 

The weary sentinel lield post, 

And lieard througli darkness far aloof 

The frequent clang of courser's hoof, 

Where hehl the cloaked patrol their course 

And spurred 'gainst storm the swerving 

horse ; 
But there are sounds in Allan's ear 50 

Patrol nor sentinel may hear, 
And sights before his eye aghast 
Invisible to them have passed, 

When down the destined plain, 
'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, 
Wild as niarah-borne meteor's glance, 



422 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance 

And doomed the future slain. 
Such forms were seen, such sounds were 

heard, 
When Scotland's James his march pre- 
pared 60 
For Flodden's fatal plain; 
Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, 
As Choosers of the Slain, adored 

The yet unchristened Dane. 
An indistinct and phantom band, 
They wheeled their ring-dance hand in 
hand 
With gestures wild and dread: 
The Seer, who watched them ride the 

storm. 
Saw through their faint and shadowy form 
The lightning's flash more red; 70 

And still their ghastly roundelay 
Was of the coming battle-fray 
And of the destined dead. 



SONG 

Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance 

And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave. 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Our airy feet, 80 

So light and fleet. 

They do not bend the rye 
That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, 
And swells again in eddying wave 

As each wild gust blows by; 
But still the corn 
At dawn of morn 

Our fatal steps that bore. 
At eve lies waste, 
A trampled paste 90 

Of blackening mud and gore. 

Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance 

And thunders rattle loud. 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Wheel the wild dance ! 
Brave sons of France, 

For you our ring makes room; 100 



Make space full wide 
For martial pride. 

For banner, spear, and plume. 
Approach, draw near, 
Proud cuirassier ! 

Room for the men of steel ! 
Through crest and plate 
The broadsword's weight 

Both head and heart shall feel. 

Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance 

And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave. 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Sons of the spear ! 
You feel us near 

In many a ghastly dream; 
With fancy's eye 
Our forms you spy. 

And hear our fatal scream. 
With clearer sight 
Ere falls the night. 

Just when to weal or woe 
Your disembodied souls take flight j 

On trembling wing — each startled sprite | 

Our choir of death shall know. 



Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance 

And thunders rattle loud. 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave. 

To sleep without a shroud. 



130 



Burst ye clouds, in tempest showers, 
Redder rain shall soon be ours — 

See the east grows wan — 
Yield we place to sterner game. 
Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame 
Shall the welkin's thunders shame; 
Elemental rage is tame 

To the wrath of man. 

At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe 
Heard of the visioned sights he saw. 

The legend heard him say; 
But the Seer's gifted eye was dim, 
Deafened his ear and stark his limb, 

Ere closed that bloody day — 
He sleeps far from his Highland heath, 
But often of the Dance of Death 

His comrades tell the tale, 



140 



ROMANCE OF DUNOIS 



423 



On picquet-post when ebbs the night, 
And waning watch-fires glow less bright, 
And dawn is glimmering pale. 



ROMANCE OF DUNOIS 

This and the two translations that follow 
were published by Scott in PauVs Letters to his 
Kinsfolk, in 1815, the book that grew out of 
his sudden visit to Waterloo. They were taken 
from a manuscript collection of French songs, 
probably compiled, says Scott, by some young 
officer, which was found stained with clay and 
blood on the field of Waterloo. The first is 
the well-known 

' Partant pour la Syrie * 
and both that and the second were written and 
set to music by Hortense Beauharnais, once 
queen of Holland. 

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was 

bound for Palestine, 
But first he made his orisons before Saint 

Mary's shrine: 

* And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,' 

was still the soldier's prayer, 

* That I may prove the bravest knight and 

love the fairest fair.' 

His oath of honor on the shrine he graved 
it with his sword. 

And followed to the Holy Land the banner 
of his Lord; 

Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war- 
cry filled the air, 

*Be honored aye the bravest knight, be- 
loved the fairest fair.' 

They owed the conquest to his arm, and 
then his liege-lord said, 

* The heart that has for honor beat by bliss 

must be repaid. 

My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a 
wedded pair, 

For thou art bravest of the brave, she fair- 
est of the fair.' 

And then they bound the holy knot before 
Saint Mary's shrine 

That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts 
and hands combine; 

And every lord and lady bright that were 
in chapel there 

Cried, * Honored be the bravest knight, be- 
loved the fairest fair I ' 



THE TROUBADOUR 

Glowing with love, on fire for fame, 
A Troubadour that hated sorrow 

Beneath his lady's window came, 

And thus he sung his last good-morrow: 

* My arm it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my true love's bower; 
Gayly for love and fame to fight 
Befits the gallant Troubadour.' 

And while he marched with helm on head 
And harp in hand, the descant rung, 

As, faithful to his favorite maid, 
The minstrel-burden still he sung: 

* My arm it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower; 

Resolved for love and fame to fight, 

I come, a gallant Troubadour.' 

Even when the battle-roar was deep. 
With dauntless heart he hewed his way, 

Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, 
And still was heard his warrior-lay: 

* My life it is my country's right. 

My heart is in my lady's bower; 
For love to die, for fame to fight. 
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.' 

Alas ! upon the bloody field 

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, 

Bujfc still reclining on his shield, 
Expiring sung the exulting stave: 

* My life it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower; 
For love and fame to fall in fight 
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.' 

' IT CHANCED THAT CUPID ON A SEASON 

It chanced that Cupid on a season. 
By Fancy urged, resolved to wed. 

But could not settle whether Reason 
Or Folly should partake his bed. 

WTiat does he then ? — Upon my life, 
'T was bad example for a deity — 

He takes me Reason for a wife, 
And Folly for his hours of gayety. 

Though thus he dealt in petty treason, 
He loved them both in equal measure; 

Fidelity was born of Reason, 

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure. 



424 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



SONG 

ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE 
HOUSE OF BUCCLEUCH, AT A GREAT 
FOOT-BALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH 

The foot-ball match took place December 5, 
1815. The Ettrick Shepherd also celebrated it. 

From the brown crest of Newark its sum- 
mons extending, 
Our signal is waving in smoke and in 
flame; 
A.nd each forester blithe, from his moun- 
tain descending, 
Bounds light o'er the heather to join in 

the game. 
Then up with the Banner, let forest winds 
fan her. 
She has blazed over Ettrick eight 
ages and more ; 
In sport we '11 attend her, in battle de- 
fend her. 
With heart and with hand, like our 
fathers before. 

When the Southern invader spread waste 
and disorder, 
At the glance of her crescents he paused 
and withdrew. 
For around them were marshalled the 
pride of the Border, 
The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of 

BuCCLEUCH. 

A stripling's weak hand to our revel has 
borne her, 
No mail-glove has grasped her, no spear- 
men surround; 
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or 
should scorn her 
A thousand true hearts would be cold on 
the ground. 

We forget each contention of civil dissen- 
sion. 
And hail, like our brethren. Home, 
Douglas, and Car: 
And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall 
mingle. 
As welcome in peace as their fathers in 
war. 

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be 
the weather, 
And if by mischance you should happen 
to fall, 



There are worse things in life than a tum- 
ble on heather. 
And life is itself but a game at foot- 
ball. 

And when it is over we '11 drink a blithe 
measure 
To each laird and each lady that wit- 
nessed our fun. 
And to every blithe heart that took part in 
our pleasure. 
To the lads that have lost and the lads 
that have won. 

May the Forest still flourish, both Borough 
and Landward, 
From the hall of the peer to the herd's 
ingle-nook ; 
And huzza ! my brave hearts, for Buc- 
CLEUCH and his standard. 
For the King and the Country, the Clan 

and the Duke ! 
Then up with the Banner, let forest winds 
fan her, 
She has blazed over Ettrick eight 
ages and more; 
In sport we '11 attend her, in battle de- 
fend her, 
With heart and with hand, like our 
fathers before. 



SONGS FROM GUY MANNERING 

Published in 1815. 

I 

* CANNY MOMENT, LUCKY FIT* 
From Chapter iii. 

Canny moment, lucky fit; 

Is the lady lighter yet ? 

Be it lad, or be it lass. 

Sign wi' cross, and sain wi' mass. 

Trefoil, vervain, John's-wort, dill, 
Hinders witches of their will; 
Weel is them, that weel may 
Fast upon St. Andrew's day. 

Saint Bride and her brat. 
Saint Colme and her cat, 
Saint Michael and his spear. 
Keep the house frae reif and wear. 



THE RETURN TO ULSTER 



42s 



II 



* TWIST YE, TWINE YE ! EVEN SO ' 

From Chapter iv. 

Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
Hope and fear and peace and strife, 
In the thread of human life. 

While the mystic twist is spinning. 
And the infant's life beginning. 
Dimly seen through twilight bending, 
Lo, what varied shapes attending ! 

Passions wild and follies vain. 
Pleasures soon exchanged for pain; 
Doubt and jealousy and fear. 
In the magic dance appear. 

Now they wax and now they dwindle, 
Whirling with the whirling spindle. 
Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle human bliss and woe. 



Ill 

* WASTED, WEARY, WHEREFORE STAY* 

From Chapter xxvii. 

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, 
Wrestling thus with earth and clay ? 
From the body pass away; — 

Hark ! the mass is singing. 

From thee dofP thy mortal weed, 
Mary Mother be thy speed, 
Saints to help thee at thy need; — 

Hark ! the knell is ringing. 

Fear 'not snow-drift driving fast. 
Sleet or hail or levin blast; 
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast, 
And the sleep be on thee cast 

That shall ne'er know waking. 

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, 
Earth flits fast, and time draws on, — 
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan. 
Day is near the breaking. 



IV 

*DARK SHALL BE LIGHT* 

From Chapter xlix. 

Dark shall be light. 

And wrong done to right, 
When Bertram's right and Bertram's might 
Shall meet on Ellangowan's height. 

LULLABY OF AN INFANT 
CHIEF 

Air — ' Cadul gu lo ' 

The words of the air signify * Sleep on till 
day.' The lullaby was written for Mr. Terry's 
dramatization of Guy Mannering. 

O, HUSH thee, my babie, thy sire was a 

knight. 
Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright; 
The woods and the glens, from the towers 

which we see. 
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee. 
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, 
O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. 

0, fear not the bugle, though loudly it 
blows. 

It calls but the warders that guard thy re- 
pose; 

Their bows would be bended, their blades 
would be red. 

Ere the step of a foeman draws near to 
thy bed. 

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. 

0, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will 
come, 

When thy sleep shall be broken by trum- 
pet and drum; 

Then hush thee, my darling, take rest 
while you may. 

For strife comes with manhood and wak- 
ing with day. 

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. 

THE RETURN TO ULSTER 

First published in Thomson's Collection of 
Irish AirSf 1810. 

Once again, — but how changed since my 

wanderings began — 
I have heard the deep voice of the T^ngan 

and Bann, 



426 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to 
the roar 

That wearies the echoes of fair TuUamore. 

Alas ! my poor bosom, and why shouldst 
thou burn ! 

With the scenes of my youth can its rap- 
tures return ? 

Can I live the dear life of delusion again, 

That flowed when these echoes first mixed 
with my strain ? 

It was then that around me, though poor 

and unknown, 
High spells of mysterious enchantment 

were thrown; 
The streams were of silver, of diamond the 

dew. 
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. 
I had heard of our bards, and my soul was 

on fire 
At the rush of their verse and the sweep 

of their lyre: 
To me 't was not legend nor tale to the 

ear. 
But a vision of noontide, distinguished and 

clear. 

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call, 
And renewed the wild pomp of the chase 

and the hall; 
And the standard of Fion flashed fierce 

from on high, 
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest 

is nigh. 
It seemed that the harp of green Erin 

once more 
Could renew all the glories she boasted of 

yore. — 
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, 

shouldst thou burn ? 
They were days of delusion and cannot 

return. 

But was she, too, a phantom, the maid 

who stood by, 
And listed my lay while she turned from 

mine eye ? 
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to 

view. 
Then dispersed in the sunbeam or melted 

to dew ? 
O, would it had been so ! — O, would that 

her eye 
Had been but a star - glance that shot 

through the sky. 



And her voice that was moulded to 

melody's thrill. 
Had been but a zephyr that sighed and 

was still ! 

O, would it had been so ! — not then this 

poor heart 
Had learned the sad lesson, to love and to 

part; 
To bear unassisted its burden of care, 
While I toiled for the wealth I had no one 

to share. 
Not then had I said, when life's summer 

was done 
And the hours of her autumn were fast 

speeding on, 
"' Take the fame and the riches ye brought 

in your train. 
And restore me the dream of my spring- 
tide again.' 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 

Am — ' A Border Melody ' 

The first stanza is old. The others were 
added to it for Campbell Albyn's Anthology, 
1816. 

* Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I '11 wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride: 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen ' — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa* 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

* Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha'. 

His sword in battle keen ' — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean, 

* A chain of gold ye sail not lack. 

Nor braid to bind your hair; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk. 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 
And you, the foremost o' them a'. 

Shall ride our forest queen.' — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 



NORA'S VOW 



427 



The kirk was decked at morning-tide, 

The tapers glimmered fair; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baith by bower and ha'; 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She 's o'er the Border and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 



PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU 

Air — ' Piobair of Donuil Dhuidh ' 

This song was written for Albyn's Anthol- 
ogy, 1816, and contained the following preface 
by Scott : — 

* This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to 
Clan MacDonald, and supposed to refer to the 
expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, 
launched from the Isles with a considerable 
force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy 
defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar 
and Caithness, though at the head of an army 
superior to his own. The words of the set, 
theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations 
are applied, run thus in Gaelic : — 

" Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil ; 
Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi." 

" The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, 
The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, 
The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering- 
place at Inverlochy.'* 

This readily suggests the gathering song in 
the third canto of The Lady of the Lake. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlochy. 
Come every hill-plaid and 

True heart that wears one. 
Come every steel blade and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 
The flock without shelter; 



Leave the corpse uninterred. 

The bride at the altar; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges: 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 

Come as the winds come when 

Forests are rended; 
Come as the waves come when 

Navies are stranded: 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster. 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume, 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset ! 



NORA'S VOW 

Am — * Cha teid mis a chaoidh ' 

Written for Albyn's Anthology, 1816, with 
this note by Scott : — 

* In the original Gaelic, the Lady makes 
protestations that she wiU not go with the 
Red Earl's son, until the swan should build in 
the cliff, and the eagle in the lake — until one 
mountain should change places with another, 
and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there 
is no authority for supposing that she altered 
her mind — except the vehemence of her pro- 
testation.' 

Hear what Highland Nora said, 

* The Earlie's son I will not wed, 
Should all the race of nature die 
And none be left but he and I. 
For all the gold, for all the gear, 
And all the lands both far and near, 
That ever valor lost or won, 

I would not wed the Earlie*s son.* 

* A maiden's vows,' old Callum spoke, 

* Are lightly made and lightly broke; 
Tho heather on the mountaiirs height 
Begins to bloom in j)urple light; 

The frost-wind soon sluill sweep away 
That lustre deep from glen and brae; 



428 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Yet Nora ere its bloom be gone 
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.' 

* The swan,' she said, * the lake's clear 

breast 
May barter for the eagle's nest; 
The Awe's fierce stream may backward 

turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan fall and crush Kilchurn; 
Our kilted clans when blood is high 
Before their foes may turn and fly; 
But I, were all these marvels done, 
Would never wed the Earlie's son.' 

Still in the water-lily's shade 
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made; 
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, 
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce 

river; 
To shun the clash of f oeman's steel 
No Highland brogue has turned the heel; 
But Nora's heart is lost and won — 
She 's wedded to the Earlie's son ! 



MACGREGOR'S GATHERING 

Written for Albyn's Anthology, 1816. 
Air — ' Thain'' a Grigalach ' 

The moon 's on the lake and the mist 's on 

the brae. 
And the Clan has a name that is nameless 
by day; 
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach! 
Gather, gather, gather, etc. 

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs 

we drew. 
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful 
haloo ! 
Then haloo, Grigalach ! haloo, Griga- 
lach ! 
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, etc. 

Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchurn 

and her towers, 
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours ; 
We 're landless, landless, landless, 

Grigalach ! 
Landless, landless, landless, etc. 

But doomed and devoted by vassal and lord, 
MacGregor has still both his heart and his 
sword ! 



Then courage, courage, courage, Grig- 
alach ! 
Courage, courage, courage, etc. 

If they rob us of name and pursue us with 

beagles. 
Give their roofs to the flame and their flesh 
to the eagles ! 
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, 

Grigalach ! 
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, etc. 

While there 's leaves in the forest and foam 

on the river, 
MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish 
forever ! 
Come then, Grigalach, come then, 

Grigalach ! 
Come then, come then, come then, etc. 

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the 
steed shall career. 

O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley 
shall steer. 

And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles 
melt. 

Ere our wrongs be forgot or our vengeance 
unfelt. 
Then gather, gather, gather, Griga- 
lach ! 
Gather, gather, gather, etc. 

VERSES 

COMPOSED FOR THE OCCASION, ADAPTED 
TO HAYDN'S air ' GOD SAVE THE EM- 
PEROR FRANCIS,' AND SUNG BY A 
SELECT BAND AFTER THE DINNER 
GIVEN BY THE LORD PROVOST OF 
EDINBURGH TO THE GRAND-DUKE 
NICHOLAS OF RUSSIA, AND HIS SUITE, 
I9TH DECEMBER, 1816. 

God protect brave Alexander, 
Heaven defend the noble Czar, 
Mighty Russia's high Commander, 
First in Europe's banded war; 
For the realms he did deliver 
From the tyrant overthrown. 
Thou, of every good the Giver, 
Grant him long to bless his own ! 
Bless him, mid his land's disaster 
For her rights who battled brave; 
Of the land of foemen master. 
Bless him who their wrongs forgave. 



VERSES FROM THE ANTIQUARY 



429 



O'er his just resentment victor, 
Victor over Europe's foes, 
Late and long supreme director, 
Grant in peace his reign may close. 
Hail ! then, hail ! illustrious stranger ! 
Welcome to our mountain strand; 
Mutual interests, hopes, and danger, 
Link us with thy native land. 
Freemen's force or false beguiling 
Shall that union ne'er divide. 
Hand in hand while peace is smiling, 
And in battle side by side. 

VERSES FROM THE ANTIQUARY 
Published in 1816. 



*HE CAME, BUT VALOR HAD SO FIRED 
HIS EYE ' 

From Chapter vi. 

He came — but valor had so fired his eye, 
And such a falchion glittered on his thigh. 
That, by the gods, with such a load of steel, 
I thought he came to murder — not to 
heal. 

II 

<WHY SIT'ST thou BY THAT RUINED 
HALL ' 

From Chapter x. 

< Why sit'st thou by that ruined hall. 
Thou aged carle so stern and gray ? 

Dost thou its former pride recall. 
Or ponder how it passed away ? ' 

* Know'st thou not me ? ' the Deep Voice 

cried: 
* So long enjoyed, so oft misused — 
Alternate, in thy fickle pride. 
Desired, neglected, and accused 1 

* Before my breath, like blazing flax, 

Man and his marvels pass away ! 

And changing empires wane and wax. 

Are founded, flourish, and decay. 

* Redeem mine hours — the space is brief — 

While in my glass the sand - grains 
shiver, 
And measureless thy joy or grief, 
When Time and thou shalt part foreverl' 



III 

EPITAPH 

From Chapter xi. 

Heir lyeth John o' ye Girnell, 
Erth has ye nit and heuen ye kirnell. 
In hys tyme ilk wyfe's hennis clokit. 
Ilka gud mannis berth wi' bairnis was 

stokit. 
He deled a boll o' bear in firlottis fyve. 
Four for ye halie kirke and ane for puir 

mennis wyvis. 



IV 

' THE HERRING LOVES THE MERRY MOON- 
LIGHT ' 

From Chapter xi. ' As the Antiquary lifted 
the latch of the hut, he was surprised to hear 
the shrill, tremulous voice of Elspeth chanting 
forth an old ballad in a wild and doleful recita- 
tive : ' — 

The herring loves the merry moon-light, 

The mackerel loves the wind. 
But the oyster loves the dredging sang, 

For they come of a gentle kind. 

Now hand your tongue, baith wife and 
carle. 

And listen great and sma'. 
And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl 

That fought on the red Harlaw. 

The cronach 's cried on Bennachie, 

And doun the Don and a', 
And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be 

For the sair field of Harlaw. — 

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, 
They hae bridled a hundred black, 

With a chafron of steel on each horse's 
head. 
And a good knight upon his back. 

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, 

A mile but barely ten. 
When Donald came brankiug down the 
brae 

Wi' twenty thousand men. 

Their tartans they were waving wide, 
Their glaives were glancing cleiu*, 



430 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



The pibrochs rung frae side to side, 
TTould deafen ye to hear. 

The great Earl in his stirrups stood, 

That Highland host to see: 
' Now here a knight that 's stout and good 
May prove a jeopardie: 

* Wliat would'st thou do, my squire so gay, 

That rides beside my reyue, — 

Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, 

And I were Roland Cheyue ? 

* To turn the rein were sin and shame. 

To fight were wond'rous peril, — 
What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, 
Were ye Glenallan's Earl ? ' — 

* Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, 

And ye were Roland Cheyne, 
The spur should be in my horse's side, 
And the bridle upon his mane. 

*If they hae twenty thousand blades, 

And we twice ten times ten. 
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, 

And we are mail-clad men. 

*My horse shall ride through ranks sae 
rude. 

As through the moorland fern, — 
Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude 

Grow cauld for Highland kerne.' 



He turned Lim right and round again, 
Said, * Scorn na at my mither; 

Light loves I may get mony a ane, 
But minnie ne'er anither.' 



VERSES FROM OLD MORTALITY 
Published in 1816. 

I 

'AND WHAT THOUGH WINTER WILL 
PINCH SEVERE ' 

From Chapter xix. 

And what though winter will pinch severe 
Through locks of grav and a cloak that 's 
old, 

Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier, 
For a cup of sack shall fence the cold. 



For time will rust the brightest blade, 
And years will break the strongest bow; 

Was never wight so starkly made. 
But time and years would overthrow. 



n 



verses fount), with a lock of hair, in 

bothwell's pocket-book 

From Chapter xxiii. 

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright 

As in that well-remembered night. 
When first thy mystic braid was wove, 
And first my Agnes whispered love. 

Since then how often hast thou pressed 
The torrid zone of this wild breast, 
Whose wi-ath and hate have sworn to dwell 
With the first siu that peopled hell ; 
A breast whose blood 's a troubled ocean. 
Each throb the earthquake's wild commo- 
tion ! — ^1 
Oh, if such clime thou canst endure, V 
Yet keep thy hue unstained and pure. 
What conquest o'er each erring thought 
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought ! 
I had not wandered wild and wide. 
With such an angel for my guide; 
Xor heaven nor earth could then reprove 

me 
If she had lived, and lived to love me. 

Xot then this world's wild joys had been 
To me one savage hunting-scene. 
My sole delight the headlong race, 
And frantic hurry of the chase; 
To start, pursue, and bring to bay, 
Rush in, drag down and rend my prey, 
Then — from the carcase turn away ! 
Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, 
And soothed each wound which pride in- 
flamed ! 
Yes, God and man might now approve me, 
If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me. 



m 



EPITAPH ON BALFOUR OF BURLEY 

From Chapter xliv. ' Gentle reader, T did 
request of mine honest friend Peter Prondfoot, 
travelling merchant, known to many of this 
land for his faithful and just dealings, as well 
in muslins and cambrics as in small wares, to 
procure me, on his next peregrinations to that 



THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS 



431 



vicinage, a copy of the Epitaphion alluded to. 
And, according to his report, which I see no 
ground to discredit, it runneth thus : — 

Here lyes ane saiut to prelates surly, 
Being John Balfour, sometime of Burley, 
Who, stirred up to vengeance take. 
For solemn League and Cov'nant's sake, 
Upon the Magus-Moor, in Fife, 
Did tak* James Sharpe the apostate's life; 
By Dutchman's hands was hacked and shot. 
Then drowned in Clyde near this saam 
spot. 

THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS 

OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN 

The hint of this tale, which was published in 
1817, was taken from a novel of Casti, La 
Camiscia Magica. 

O, FOR a glance of that gay Muse's eye 
That lightened on Bandello's laughing 

tale. 
And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and 

sly 
When Giam Battista bade her vision 

hail! — 
Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail 
Given by the natives of that land cano- 
rous; 
Italian license loves to leap the pale. 
We Britons have the fear of shame be- 
fore us. 
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be 
decorous. 

In the far eastern clime, no great while 

since, 10 

Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince, 
Whose eyes, as oft as they performed their 

round, 
Beheld all others fixed upon the ground; 
Whose ears received the same unvaried 

phrase, 
* Sultaun ! thy vassal hears and he obeys ! ' 
All have their tastes — this may the fancy 

strike 
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur 

like; 
For me, I love the honest heart and warm 
Of monarch wlio can amble round his farm, 
Or, when the toil of state no more annoys, 20 
In chimney corner seek domestic joys — 



I love a prince will bid the bottle pass. 
Exchanging with his subjects glance and 

glass ; 
In fitting time can, gayest of the gay, 
Keep up the jest and mingle in the lay — 
Such monarchs best our free-born humors 

suit. 
But despots must be stately, stern, and 

mute. 

This Solimaun Serendib had in sway — 
And where 's Serendib ? may some critic 

say. — ^ 
Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the 
chart, 30 

Scare not my Pegasus before I start ! 
If Rennell has it not, you '11 find mayhap 
The isle laid down in Captain Sindbad's 

map — 
Famed mariner, whose merciless narrations 
Drove every friend and kinsman out of 

patience. 
Till, fain to find a guest who thought them 

shorter, 
He deigned to tell them over to a porter — 
The last edition see, by Long, and Co. , 
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the 

Row. 

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fic- 
tion — 40 
This Sultaun, whether lacking contradic- 
tion — 
A sort of stimulant which hath its uses 
To raise the spirits and reform the juices, 
Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures 
In my wife's practice and perhaps in 

yours — 
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome 

bitter, 
Or cordial smoothfor prince's palate fitter — 
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams 
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild 

themes 
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft, 50 
1 wot not — but the Sultaun Ufvor laughed, 
Scarce Jitc or drank, and took a melancholy 
That scorned all remedy profane or holy; 
In his long list of melancholios, mad 
Or mazed or dumb, hath Burton none so bad. 

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and 
tried, 
As e'er scrawled jargon in a darkened 
room ; 



432 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue 

they eyed, 
Peeped in his bath and God knows where 

beside, 
And then in solemn accent spoke their 

doom, 60 

* His majest}^ is very far from well.' 
Then each to work with his specific fell: 
The Hakim Ibrahim instanter brought 
His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut, 
While Koompot, a practitioner more wily, 
Relied on his Munaskif al fillfily. 

More and yet more in deep array appear. 
And some the front assail and some the 

rear; 
Their remedies to reinforce and vary 
Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary; 70 
Till the tired monarch, though of words 

grown chary. 
Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless 

labor. 
Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre. 
There lacked, I promise you, no longer 

speeches 
To rid the palace of those learned leeches. 

Then was the council called — by their 

advice — 
They deemed the matter ticklish all and 

nice. 
And sought to shift it off from their 

own shoulders — 
Tartars and couriers in all speed were 

sent, 
To call a sort of Eastern Parliament 80 
Of feudatory chieftains and freehold- 
ers — 
Such have the Persians at this very day. 
My gallant Malcolm calls them courouU 

tai; — 
I 'm not prepared to show in this slight 

song 
That to Serendib the same forms belong — 
E'en let the learned go search, and tell me 

if I 'm wrong. 

The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar. 
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for 
war — 

* The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath 
Too long has slept nor owned the work of 

death; 90 

Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle. 
Bang the loud gong and raise the shout of 

battle ! 



This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's 
day 

Shall from his kindled bosom flit away. 

When the bold Lootie wheels his courser 
round 

And the armed elephant shall shake the 
ground. 

Each noble pants to own the glorious sum- 
mons — 

And for the charges — Lo ! your faithful 
Commons ! ' 98 

The Riots who attended in their places — 
Serendib language calls a farmer Riot — 

Looked ruefully in one another's faces. 
From this oration auguring much dis- 
quiet. 

Double assessment, forage, and free quar- 
ters; 

And fearing these as Chinamen the Tartars, 

Or as the whiskered vermin fear the 
mousers. 

Each fumbled in the pocket of his trousers. 

And next came forth the reverend Convo- 
cation, 
Bald heads, white beards, and many a 

turban green, 108 

Imaum and Mollah there of every station, 
Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen. 
Their votes were various — some advised 

a mosque 
With fitting revenues should be erected. 
With seemly gardens and with gay kiosque, 

To recreate a band of priests selected; 
Others opined that through the realms a 

dole 
Be made to holy men, whose prayers 

might profit 
The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul. 
But their long-headed chief, the Sheik 

Ul-Sofit, 
More closely touched the point; — * Thy 

studious mood,' 
Quoth he, * O Prince ! hath thickened 

all thy blood, 120 

And dulled thy brain with labor beyond 

measure ; 
Wherefore relax a space and take thy 

pleasure. 
And toy with beauty or tell o'er thy 

treasure ; 
From all the cares of state, my liege, en- 
large thee. 
And leave the burden to thy faithful 

clergy.' 



THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS 



433 



These counsels sage availed not a whit, 
And so the patient — as is not uncom- 
mon 
Where grave physicians lose their time 
and wit — 
Resolved to take advice of an old 
woman ; 
His mother she, a dame who once was 
beauteous, 130 

And still was called so by each subject 

duteous. 
Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest, 

Or only made believe, I cannot say — 
But she professed to cure disease the stern- 
est. 
By dint of magic amulet or lay; 
And, when all other skill in vain was shown. 
She deemed it fitting time to use her own. 

* Sympathia magica hath wonders done ' — 
Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son — 

* It works upon the fibres and the pores, 140 
And thus insensibly our health restores. 
And it must help us here. — Thou must 

endure 
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure. 
Search land and sea, and get where'er you 

can 
The inmost vesture of a happy man, 
I mean his shirt, my son; which, taken 

warm 
And fresh from off his back, shall chase 

your harm. 
Bid every current of your veins rejoice. 
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd- 
boy's. 
Such was the counsel from his mother 
came; — 150 

I know not if she had some under-game, 
As doctors have, who bid their patients 

roam 
And live abroad when sure to die at home, 
Or if she thought that, somehow or another, 
Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen- 
Mother; 
But, says the Chronicle — who will go look 

it — 
That such was her advice — the Sultaun 
took it. 

All are on board — the Sultaun and his 
train, 

In gilded galley prompt to plough the main. 
The old Rais was the first who ques- 
tioned, * Whither ? ' i6o 



They paused — * Arabia,' thought the pen- 
sive prince, 

* Was called The Happy many ages since — 

For Mokha, Rais.' — And they came 

safely thither. 
But not in Araby with all her balm, 
Nor where Judea weeps beneath her palm, 
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, 
Could there the step of happiness be traced. 
One Copt alone professed to have seen her 

smile. 
When Bruce his goblet filled at infant 

Nile: 
She blessed the dauntless traveller as he 

quaffed, 170 

But vanished from him with the ended 

draught. 

* Enough of turbans,' said the weary King, 
^ These dolimans of ours are not the thing; 
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and 

cap, I 
Incline to think some of them must be 

happy; 
At least, they have as fair a cause as any 

can. 
They drink good wine and keep no Rama- 

zan. 
Then northward, ho ! ' — The vessel cuts 

the sea. 
And fair Italia lies upon her lee. — 
But fair Italia, she who once unfurled iSo 
Her eagle-banners o'er a conquered world, 
Long from her throne of domination timi- 

bled; 
Lay by her quondam vassals sorely hum- 
bled, 
The Pope himself looked pensive, pale, and 

lean. 
And was not half the man he once had 

been. 
' While these the priest and those the noble 

fleeces, 
Our poor old boot,' they said, *is torn to 

pieces. 
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, 
And the Great Devil is rending toe and 

heel. 
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly, iqo 
We think she dwells witli one Giovanni 

Bulli; 
A tramontane, a heretic — the buck, 
I\)fl'iirtMli(> I still has all the luck; 
By land or ocean never strikes his flag — 
And then — a perfect walking money-bag.* 



434 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Off set our prince to seek John Bull's 

abode, 
But first took France — it lay upon the 

road. 

Monsieur Baboon after much late commo- 
tion 

Was agitated like a settling ocean, 

Quite out of sorts and could not tell what 
ailed him, 200 

Only the glory of his house had failed him ; 

Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding 

Gave indication of a recent hiding. 

Our prince, though Sultauns of such things 
are heedless, 

Thought it a thing indelicate and need- 
less 
To ask if at that moment he was happy. 

And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il 
faut, a 

Loud voice mustered up, for * Vive le Roi ! ' 
Then whispered, ' Ave you any news of 
Nappy ? ' 

The Sultaun answered him with a cross 

question, — 210 

* Pray, can you tell me aught of one John 

Bull, 
That dwells somewhere beyond your 
herring-pool ? ' 

The query seemed of difficult digestion, 

The party shrugged and grinned and took 
his snuff. 

And found his whole good-breeding scarce 
enough. 

Twitching his visage into as many puckers 
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers — 
Ere liberal Fashion damned both lace and 

lawn. 
And bade the veil of modesty be drawn — 
Replied the Frenchman after a brief pause, 
* Jean Bool ! — I vas not know him — Yes, 

I vas — 221 

I vas remember dat, von year or two, 
I saw him at von place called Yaterloo — 
Ma foi ! il s'est tr^s joliment battu, 
Dat is for Englishman, — m'entendez- 

vous ? 
But den he had wit him one damn son-gun. 
Rogue I no like — dey call him Yelling- 

ton.' 
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his 

fret. 
So Solimaun took leave and crossed the 

strait. 



John Bull was in his very worst of 
moods, 230 

Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods; 

His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, 

And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. 

His wars were ended and the victory won, 

But then 'twas reckoning-day with honest 
John ; 

And authors vouch, 't was still this worthy's 
way, 

* Never to grumble till he came to pay ; 
And then he always thinks, his temper's 

such. 

The work too little and the pay too much.' 

Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and 

hearty 240 

That when his mortal foe was on the floor, 

And past the power to harm his quiet 
more. 
Poor John had wellnigh wept for Bona- 
parte ! 

Such was the wight whom Solimaun sa- 
lamed, — 

* And who are you,' John answered, * and 

be d d ? ' 

' A stranger, come to see the happiest 

man — 
So, signior, all avouch — in Frangistan.' 

* Happy ? my tenants breaking on my 

hand; 

Unstocked my pastures and untilled my 
land; 

Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and 
moths 250 

The sole consumers of my good broad- 
cloths — 

Happy ? — Why cursed war and racking 
tax 

Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs.' 

* In that case, signior, I may take my leave; 
I came to ask a favor — but I grieve ' — 

* Favor ? ' said John, and eyed the Sultaun 

hard, 

* It 's my belief you came to break the 

yard ! — 
But, stay, you look like some poor foreign 

sinner — 
Take that to buy yourself a shirt and 

dinner.' 
With that he chucked a guinea at his 

head ; 26c 

But with due dignity the Sultaun said, 

* Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline ; 
A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. 



THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS 



43S 



Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you 

welL' 
* Kiss and be d d/ quoth John, * and go 

to hell ! ' 

Next door to John there dwelt his sister 
Peg, 

Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg 

When the blithe bagpipe blew — but, so- 
berer now, 

She doucely span her flax and milked her 
cow. 

And whereas erst she was a needy slat- 
tern, 270 

Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pat- 
tern, 

Yet once a month her house was partly 
swept, 

And once a week a plenteous board she 
kept. 

And whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws 
And teeth of yore on slender provoca- 
tion, 

She now was grown amenable to laws, 
A quiet soul as any in the nation; 

The sole remembrance of her warlike joys 

Was in old songs she sang to please her 
boys. 

John Bull, whom in their years of early 
strife 280 

She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life. 

Now found the woman, as he said, a 
neighbor, 

Who looked to the main chance, declined 
no labor. 

Loved a long grace and spoke a northern 
jargon. 

And was d d close in making of a bar- 
gain. 

The Sultaun entered, and he made his 

leg, 
And with decorum curtsied sister Peg — 
She loved a book, and knew a thing or 

two. 
And guessed at once with whom she had 

to do. 
She bade him * Sit into the fire,' and 

took 290 

Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the 

nook ; 
Asked him * about the news from Eastern 

parts ; 
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland 

hearts ! 



If peace brought down the price of tea and 

pepper. 
And if the nitmugs were grown ony 

cheaper; — 
Were there nae speerings of our Mungo 

Park — 
Ye '11 be the gentleman that wants the 

sark ? 
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spin- 
ning, 
I '11 warrant ye it 's a weel- wearing linen.' 
Then up got Peg and round the house 'gan 

scuttle 300 

In search of goods her customer to nail, 
Until the Sultaun strained his princely 

throttle. 
And holloed, * Ma'am, that is not what 

I ail. 
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug 

glen ? ' 
' Happy ? ' said Peg; * What for d' ye want 

to ken ? 
Besides, just think upon this by-gane year, 
Grain wadna pay the yoking of the 

pie ugh.' 

* What say you to the present ? ' — * Meal 's 

sae dear, 
To make their hrose my bairns have 
scarce aneugh.' 
^ The devil take the shirt,' said Soli- 
maun, 310 

* I think my quest will end as it began. — 
Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I 

beg' — 

* Ye '11 no be for the linen then ? ' said 

Peg. 

Now, for the land of verdant Erin 

The Sultaun's royal bark is steering, 

The Emerald Isle where honest Paddy 
dwells. 

The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. 

For a long space had John, with words of 
thunder. 

Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy 
under. 

Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogged 
unduly, 320 

Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. 

Hard was his h)t and U)dging, you 'II alK>w, 

A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow; 

His landlord, and of middle - men two 
brace, 

Had screwed his rent up to the starving- 
place ; 



43^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



His garment was a top-coat and an old 

one, 
His meal was a potato and a cold one; 
But still for fun or frolic and all that, 
In the round world was not the match of 

Pat. 

The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, 330 

Which is with Paddy still a jolly day: 
When mass is ended, and his load of sins 
Confessed, and Mother Church hath from 

her binns 
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit. 
Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and 

spirit ! 
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free. 
And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. 

* By Mahomet,' said Sultaun Solimaun, 

* That ragged fellow is our very man ! 
Hush in and seize him — do not do him 

hurt, 340 

But, will he nill he, let me have his sMrt.'' 

Shilela their plan was wellnigh after balk- 
ing— 

Much less provocation will set it a-walk- 
ing — 

But the odds that foiled Hercules foiled 
Paddy Whack; 

They seized, and they floored, and they 
stripped him — Alack ! 

Up-bubboo ! Paddy had not — a shirt to his 
back ! 

And the king, disappointed, with sorrow 
and shame 

Went back to Serendib as sad as he came. 



LINES 

WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH 

Miss Smith, afterward Mrs. Bartley, was an 
actress who greatly pleased Scott, and he wrote 
these lines for the night of her benefit at the 
Edinburgh Theatre in 1817. 

When the lone pilgrim views afar 
The shrine that is his guiding star, 
With awe his footsteps print the road 
Which the loved saint of yore has trod. 
As near he draws and yet more near, 
His dim eye sparkles with a tear; 
The Gothic fane's unwonted show. 
The choral hymn, the tapers' glow. 



Oppress his soul; while they delight 
And chasten rapture with affright. 
No longer dare he think his toil 
Can merit aught his patron's smile; 
Too light appears the distant way, 
The chilly eve, the sultry day — 
All these endured no favor claim, 
But murmuring forth the sainted name, 
He lays his little offering down, 
And only deprecates a frown. 

We too who ply the Thespian art 
Oft feel such bodings of the heart, 
And when our utmost powers are strained 
Dare hardly hope your favor gained. 
She who from sister climes has sought 
The ancient land where Wallace fought — 
Land long renowned for arms and arts. 
And conquering eyes and dauntless 

hearts — 
She, as the flutterings here avow. 
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now ; 
Yet sure on Caledonian plain 
The stranger never sued in vain. 
'T is yours the hospitable task 
To give the applause she dare not ask; 
And they who bid the pilgrim speed, 
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed. 



MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL AD- 
DRESS 

ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH 
STAGE 

Mr. Kemble recited these lines in the dress 
of Macbeth, which he had just been acting, 
March 29, 1817. 

As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's 

sound. 
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the 

ground — 
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, 
And longs to rush on the embattled lines, 
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear. 
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; 
To think my scenic hour forever past. 
And that those valued plaudits are my last. 
Why should we part, while still some 

powers remain. 
That in your service strive not yet in vain ? 
Cannot high zeal the strength of youth 

supply, 
And sense of duty fire the fading eye; 



THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL 



437 



And all the wrongs of age remain sub- 
dued 

Beneath the burning glow of gratitude ? 

Ah, no ! the tapei:, wearing to its close, 
j Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows ; 

But all too soon the transient gleam is 
past. 

It cannot be renewed, and will not last; 

Even duty, zeal, and gratitude can wage 

But short-lived conflict with the frosts of 
age. 

Yes ! It were poor, remembering what I 
was. 

To live a pensioner on your applause. 

To drain the dregs of your endurance dry. 

And take, as alms, the praise I once could 

Till every sneermg youth around enquires, 
^ * Is this the man who once could please 



our sires 



9' 



And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful 

mien. 
To warn me olf from the encumbered 

scene. 
This must not be; — and higher duties 

crave 
Some space between the theatre and the 

grave. 
That, like the Roman in the Capitol, 
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall: 
My life's brief act in public service flown. 
The last, the closing scene, must be my 

own. 

Here, then, adieu ! while yet some well- 
graced parts 
May fix an ancient favorite in your hearts. 
Not quite to be forgotten, even when 
You look on better actors, younger men: 
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt 
Of old remembrance, how shall mine for- 
get— 
O, how forget ! — how oft I hither came 
In anxious hope, how oft returned with 

fame ! 
How oft around your circle this weak hand 
Has waved immortal Shakespeare's magic 

wand, 
Till the full burst of inspiration came, 
And I have felt, and you have fanned the 

flame ! 
By mem'ry treasured, while her reign 

endures, 
Those hours must live — and idl their 
charms are yours. 



O favored Land ! renowned for arts and 

arms. 
For manly talent, and for female charms. 
Could this full bosom prompt the sinking 

line, 
What fervent benedictions now were thine ! 
But my last part is played, my knell is 

rung. 
When e'en your praise falls faltering from 

my tongue; 
And all that you can hear, or I can tell. 
Is — Friends and Patrons, hail, and fare 

YOU WELL. 



THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW 
HILL 

Am — * Bimhin aluin ^stu mo run ' 

* It was while struggling with such languor, 
on one lovely evening of this autumn [1817], 
that he composed the following beautiful 
verses. They mark the very spot of their birth, 
— namely, the then naked height overhanging 
the northern side of the Cauldshields Loch, 
from which Melrose Abbey to the eastward, 
and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow to the 
west, are now visible over a wide range of rich 
woodland, — all the work of the poet's hand.' 
Lockhart's Life, Chapter xxxix. 

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill 

In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; 
The westland wind is hush and still, 

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
Yet not the landscape to mine eye 

Bears those bright hues that once it 
bore. 
Though evening with her richest dye 

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. 

With listless look along the plain 

I see Tweed's silver current glide, 
And coldly mark the holy fane 

Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. 
The quiet hike, the balmy air, 

The hill, the stream, the tower, the 
tree — 
Are they still such as once they were, 

Or is the dreary change in me ? 

Alas ! the warped and broken board, 
How can it boar the painter's dye ? 

The harp of strained and tuneless chord, 
How to the minstrel's skill reply ? 



433 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



To aching eyes each landscape lowers, 
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; 

And Araby's or Eden's bowers 

Were barren as this moorland hill. 



SONG FROM ROB ROY 
Published in 1817. 

TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THE 
BLACK PRINCE 

O FOR the voice of that wild horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 

The dying hero's call, 
That told imperial Charlemagne, 
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain 

Had wrought his champion's fall. 

Sad over earth and ocean sounding. 
And England's distant cliffs astounding, 

Such are the notes should say 
How Britain's hope, and France's fear, 
Victor of Cressy and Poitier, 

In Bourdeaux dying lay. 

* Raise my faint head, my squires,' he said, 

* And let the casement be displayed. 

That I may see once more 
The splendor of the setting sun 
Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne, 

And Blaye's empurpled shore.' 

* Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep, 
His fall the dews of evening steep, 

As if in sorrow shed. 
So soft shall fall the trickling tear, 
When England's maids and matrons hear 

Of their Black Edward dead. 

* And though my sun of glory set. 
Nor France nor England shall forget 

The terror of my name ; 
And oft shall Britain's heroes rise, 
New planets in these southern skies, 

Through clouds of blood and flame.' 

THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S 
MARCH 

AiB — ' Ymdaith Mionge ' 

Written for Mr. George Thomson's Welsh 
Melodies, in 1817, and provided by Scott with 
this note, — ' Ethelf rid, or Olfrid, King of 



Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 
613, and Brockmael, a British Prince, advan- 
cing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbor- 
ing Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, 
to pray for the success of their countrymen. 
But the British being totally defeated, the 
heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and 
destroyed their monastery. The tune to which 
these verses are adapted is called the Monks' 
March, and is supposed to have been played 
at their ill-omened procession.' 

When the heathen trumpet's clang 
Round beleaguered Chester rang. 
Veiled nun and friar gray 
Marched from Bangor's fair Abbaye; 
High their holy anthem sounds, 
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, 
Floating down the sylvan Dee, 

miserere, Domine ! 

On the long procession goes. 
Glory round their crosses glows, 
And the Virgin-mother mild 
In their peaceful banner smiled; 
Who could think such saintly band 
Doomed to feel unhallowed hand ? 
Such was the Divine decree, 

miserere, Domine ! 

Bands that masses only sung. 
Hands that censers only swung, 
Met the northern bow and bill, 
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill: 
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand, 
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand, 
Woe to Saxon cruelty, 

miserere, Domine ! 

Weltering amid warriors slain. 
Spurned by steeds with bloody mane, 
Slaughtered down by heathen blade, 
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid: 
Word of parting rest unspoke. 
Mass unsung and bread unbroke; 
For their souls for charity, 

Sing^ miserere, Domine I 

Bangor ! o'er the murder wail ! 
Long thy ruins told the tale. 
Shattered towers and broken arch 
Long recalled the woful march: 
On thy shrine no tapers burn. 
Never shall thy priests return ; 
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee, 
miserere, Domine ! 



MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT 



439 



EPILOGUE TO ^THE APPEAL' 

The Appeal, a tragedy by John Gait, was 
played in Edinburgh and Mrs. Siddons spoke 
this epilogue February 16, 1818. 

A CAT of yore — or else old ^sop lied — 
Was changed into a fair and blooming 

bride, 
But spied a mouse upon her marriage-day, 
Forgot her spouse and seized upon her 

prey; 
Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you 

saw, 
Threw off poor me and pounced upon papa. 
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made 

loose. 
He twisted round my sire's the literal 

noose. 
Such are the fruits of our dramatic labor 
Since the New Jail became our next-door 

neighbor. 

Yes, times are changed; for in your 

father's age 
The lawyers were the patrons of the stage; 
However high advanced by future fate. 
There stands the bench \_points to the Pitl 

that first received their weight. 
The future legal sage 't was ours to see 
Doom though unwigged and plead without 

a fee. 

But now, astounding each poor mimic 

elf, 
Instead of lawyers comes the law herself; 
Tremendous neighbor, on our right she 

dwells, 
Builds high her towers and excavates her 

cells; 
While on the left she agitates the town 
With the tempestuous question. Up or 

down ? 
'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis thus stand we. 
Law's final end and law's uncertainty. 
But, soft ! who lives at Rome the Pope 

must flatter. 
And jails and lawsuits are no jesting matter. 
Then — just farewell ! We wait with seri- 
ous awe 
Till your applause or censure gives the 

law. 
Trusting our humble efforts may assure ye, 
We hold you Court and Counsel, Judge 

and Jury. 



MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT 

Air — ' Cha till mi tuille ' 

This Lament was contributed by Scott to 
Albyn's Anthology in 1818, with this preface : 
' Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of 
Macleod, is said to have composed this Lament 
when the Clan was about to depart upon a 
distant and dangerous expedition. The Min- 
strel was impressed with a belief, which the 
event verified, that he was to be slain in the 
approaching feud ; and hence the Gaelic words, 
" Cha till mi tuille ; ged thillis Macleod, cha 
till Mackrimmon," " I shall never return ; al- 
though Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon 
shall never return! " The piece is but too 
well known, from its being the strain with 
which the emigrants from the West Highlands 
and Isles usually take leave of their native 
shore.' 



MacLeod's wizard flag from the gray 
castle sallies. 

The rowers are seated, unmoored are the 
galleys; 

Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang tar- 
get and quiver. 

As Mackrimmon sings, * Farewell to Dun- 
vegan forever ! 

Farewell to each cliff on which breakers 
are foaming; 

Farewell, each dark glen in which red-deer 
are roaming; 

Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, 
and river; 

Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon 
shall never ! 



* Farewell the bright clouds that on Quil- 

lan arc sleeping; 
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that 

are weeping; 
To each minstrel delusion, farewell ! — and 

forever — 
Mackrimmon departs, to return to you 

never I 
The Banshe.e!*s wild voice sings the death- 
dirge before me. 
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs 

o'er me; 
But my heart shall not flag and my nerves 

shall not sliiver, 
Though devoted 1 go — to return again 

never I 



440 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



* Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's 

bewailing 
Be heard when the Gael on their exile are 

sailing ; 
Dear land ! to the shores whence unwilling 

we sever 
Return — return — return shall we never ! 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
Gea thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon!' 

DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN 

Air — " Malcolm Caird 's come again,^^ 

This also was contributed to Albyu's Anthol- 
ogy in 1818. 

CHORUS 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 
Donald Caird 's come again ! 
Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
Donald Caird 's come again • 

Donald Caird can lilt and sing. 
Blithely dance the Hieland fling. 
Drink till the gudeman be blind, 
Fleech till the gudewife be kind; 
Hoop a leglin, clout a pan, 
Or crack a pow wi' ony man; 
Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
Donald Caird 's come again. 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Tell the news in brugh and glen, 

Donald Caird *s come again. 

Donald Caird can wire a maukin. 
Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin'. 
Leisters kipper, makes a shift 
To shoot a muir-fowl in the drift; 
Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers. 
He can wauk when they are sleepers; 
Not for bountith or reward 
Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird. 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Gar the bag-pipes hum amain, 

Donald Caird 's come again. 

Donald Caird can drink a gill 
Fast as hostler- wife can fill; 
Ilka ane that sells gude liquor 
Kens how Donald bends a bicker; 
When he 's f ou he 's stout and saucy, 



Keeps the cantle o' the cawsey; 
Hieland chief and Lawland laird 
Maun gie room to Donald Caird ! 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Tell the news in brugh and glen, 

Donald Caird 's come again. 

Steek the amrie, lock the kist, 
Else some gear may weel be mist; 
Donald Caird finds orra things 
Where Allan Gregor fand the tings; 
Dunts of kebbuck, taits o' woo, 
Whiles a hen and whiles a sow, 
Webs or duds frae hedge or yard — 
'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird ! 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Dinna let the Shirra ken 

Donald Caird 's come again. 

On Donald Caird the doom was stern, 
Craig to tether, legs to aim; 
But Donald Caird wi' mickle study 
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie; 
Rings of aim, and bolts of steel. 
Fell like ice frae hand and heel ! 
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen, 
Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 

Dinna let the Justice ken 

Donald Caird 's come again. 



MADGE WILDFIRE'S SONGS 

From The Heart of Mid-Lothian, published 
in 1818. 

When the gledd 's in the blue cloud. 

The lavrock lies still; 
When the hound 's in the green- wood. 

The hind keeps the hill. 



* O sleep ye sound. Sir James,' she said, 
* AVhen ye suld rise and ride ? 

There 's twenty men, wi' bow and blade, 
Are seeking where ye hide.' 



I glance like the wildfire thro' country and 

town; 
I 'm seen on the causeway — I 'm seen on 

the down; 



IL 



MADGE WILDFIRFS SONGS 



441 



The lightning that flashes so bright and so 

free, 
Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me. 



i 



What did ye wi' the bridal ring — bridal 

ring — bridal ring ? 
What did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye 

little cutty quean, O ? 
I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger, 
I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o' 

mine, O. 

Grood even, good fair moon, good even to 

thee; 
I prithee, dear moon, now show to me 
The form and the features, the speech and 

degree, 
Of the man that true lover of mine shall 

be. 



It is the bonny butcher lad. 
That wears the sleeves of blue; 

He sells the flesh on Saturday, 
On Friday that he slew. 



There 's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald 
Wood, 

There 's harness glancing sheen ; 
There 's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae, 

And she sings loud between. 



'With my curtch on my foot, and my shoe 

on my hand, 
I glance like the wildfire through brugh 

and through land. 



In the bonnie cells of Bedlam, 

Ere I was ane and twenty, 
I had hempen bracelets strong, 
And merry whips, ding-dong, 
And prayer and fasting plenty. 



I'm Madge of the country, I 'm Madge of 

the town, 
And 1 'm Madge of the lad I am blithest 

to own, — 



The Lady of Beever in diamonds may 

shine. 
But has not a heart half so lightsome as 

mine. 

I am Queen of the Wake, and I 'm Lady 
of May, 

And I lead the blithe ring round the May- 
pole to-day; 

The wild-fire that flashes so fair and so 
free 

Was never so bright, or so bonnie as me. 



Our work is over — over now, 
The goodman wipes his weary brow, 
The last long wain wends slow away, 
And we are free to sport and play. 

The night comes on when sets the sun. 
And labor ends when day is done. 
When Autumn 's gone, and Winter 's come, 
We hold our jovial harvest-home. 



When the fight of grace is fought, — 
When the marriage vest is wrought, — 
When Faith has chased cold Doubt away — 
And Hope but sickens at delay, — 
When Charity, imprisoned here. 
Longs for a more expanded sphere; 
Doff thy robes of sin and clay ; 
Christian, rise, and come away. 



Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald, 
And sad my sleep of sorrow; 

But thine sail be as sad and cauld, 
My fause true love ! to-morrow. 

And weep ye not, my maidens free, 
Though death your mistress borrow; 

For ho for whom 1 die ti>-day, 
Shall die for mo to-nu)rrow. 



Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early; 
Swct't Kobin sits on the bush, 

Singing so rarely. 

* Toll mo, thou bonny bird, 
When shall I marry nic ? * - 



442 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



* When six braw gentlemen 

Kirk ward shall carry ye.' 

* Who makes the bridal bed, 

Birdie, say truly ? ' — 

* The gray-headed sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 

^ The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 
Shall light thee steady. 
The owl from the steeple sing, 
" Welcome, proud lady." ' 



THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH 

These verses, which appeared in Blackwood 
for February, 1818, are, says Scott, ' a literal 
translation of an ancient Swiss ballad upon the 
Battle of Sempach, fought 9th July, 1386, being 
the victory by which the Swiss Cantons estab- 
lished their independence ; the author, Albert 
Tchudi, denominated the Souter, from his pro- 
fession of a shoemaker. He was a citizen of 
Lucerne, esteemed highly among his country- 
men, both for his powers as a Meister-Singerj 
or minstrel, and his courage as a soldier ; so 
that he might share the praise conferred by 
Collins on -2Eschylus, that, — 

" Not alone he nursed the poet's flame, 
But reached from Virtue's hand the patriot steel." ' 

'T WAS when among our linden-trees 
The bees had housed in swarms — 

And gray-haired peasants say that these 
Betoken foreign arms — 

Then looked we down to Willisow, 

The land was all in flame; 
We knew the Archduke Leopold 

With all his army came. 

The Austrian nobles made their vow, 

So hot their heart and bold, lo 

* On Switzer carles we '11 trample now. 

And slay both young and old.' 

With clarion loud and banner proud. 

From Zurich on the lake, 
In martial pomp and fair array 

Their onward march they make. 

* Now list, ye lowland nobles all — 

Ye seek the mountain-strand, 
^ov wot ye what shall be your lot 

In such a dangerous land. 20 



* I rede ye, shrive ye of your sins 

Before ye farther go; 
A skirmish in Helvetian hills 
May send your souls to woe.' 

* But where now shall we find a priest 

Our shrift that he may hear ? ' — 

* The Switzer priest has ta'en the field, 

He deals a penance drear. 

* Right heavily upon your head 

He '11 lay his hand of steel, 
And with his trusty partisan 
Your absolution deal.' 

'T was on a Monday morning then, 
The corn was steeped in dew. 

And merry maids had sickles ta'en, 
When the host to Sempach drew. 

The stalwart men of fair Lucerne, 

Together have they joined; 
The pith and core of manhood stern, 

Was none cast looks behind. 

It was the Lord of Hare-castle, 
And to the Duke he said, 

* Yon little band of brethren true 

Will meet us undismayed.' — 

* O Hare-castle, thou heart of hare ! ' 

Fierce Oxeustern replied. — 
' Shalt see then how the game will fare,' 
The taunted knight replied. 



There was lacing then of helmets bright, 
And closing ranks amain; 50 

The peaks they hewed from their boot- 
points 
Might well-nigh load a wain. 



40 



And thus they to each other said, 
* Yon handful down to hew 

Will be no boastful tale to tell. 
The peasants are so few.' 

The gallant Swiss Confederates there. 
They prayed to God aloud. 

And he displayed his rainbow fair 
Against a swarthy cloud. 



f 



6«^ 



Then heart and pulse throbbed more and more 

With courage firm and high, 
And down the good Confederates bore 

On the Austrian chivalry. 



THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH 



443 



The Austrian Lion 'gan to growl 

And toss his mane and tail, 
And ball and shaft and crossbow bolt 

Went whistling forth like hail. 

Lance, pike, and halbert mingled there, 
The game was nothing sweet; 70 

The bows of many a stately tree 
Lay shivered at their feet. 

The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast, 
So close their spears they laid; 

It chafed the gallant Winkelreid, 
Who to his comrades said — 

' I have a virtuous wife at home, 

A wife and infant son; 
I leave them to my country *s care, — 

This field shall soon be won. 80 

* These nobles lay their spears right thick 

And keep full firm array, 
Yet shall my charge their order break 

And make my brethren way.' 

He rushed against the Austrian band, 

In desperate career. 
And with his body, breast, and hand, 

Bore down each hostile spear. 

Four lances splintered on his crest. 

Six shivered in his side ; 90 

Still on the serried files he pressed — 
He broke their ranks and died. 

This patriot's self-devoted deed 

First tamed the Lion's mood. 
And the four Forest Cantons freed 

From thraldom by his blood. 

Right where his charge had made a lane 

His valiant comrades burst, 
With sword and axe and partisan, 

And hack and stab and thrust. 100 

The daunted Lion 'gau to whine 

And granted ground amain, 
The Mountain Bull he bent his brows, 

And gored his sides again. 

Then lost was banner, spear, and shield 

At Sempach in the flight. 
The cloister vaults at Konig's-field 

Hold many an Austrian knight. 



It was the Archduke Leopold, 

So lordly would he ride, n 

But he came against the Switzer churls, 

And they slew him in his pride. 

The heifer said unto the bull, 

* And shall I not complain ? 
There came a foreign nobleman 

To milk me on the plain. 

* One thrust of thine outrageous horn 

Has galled the knight so sore 
That to the churchyard he is borne. 

To range our glens no more.' 12 

An Austrian noble left the stour, 
And fast the flight 'gan take; 

And he arrived in luckless hour 
At Sempach on the lake. 

He and his squire a fisher called — 
His name was Hans von Rot — 

* For love or meed or charity. 

Receive us in thy boat ! ' 

Their anxious call the fisher heard. 

And, glad the meed to win, 13 

His shallop to the shore he steered 
And took the flyers in. 

And while against the tide and wind 

Hans stoutly rowed his way, 
The noble to his follower signed 

He should the boatman slay. 

The fisher's back was to them turned, 

The squire his dagger drew, 
Hans saw his shadow in the lake. 

The boat he overthrew. 14 

He whelmed the boat, and as they strove 
He stunned them with his oar, 

* Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs. 

You '11 ne'er stab boatman more. 

* Two gilded fishes in the lake 

This morning have I caught, 
Their silver scales may much avail. 
Their carrion flesh is naught.' 



It was a messenger of woe 

Has sought the Austrian land: 

* Ah ! gracious lady, evil news ! 
My lord lies on the strand. 



ISO 



444 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



* At Sempach, on the battle-field, 

His bloody corpse lies there.' — 

* Ah, gracious God ! ' the lady cried, 

* What tidings of despair ! ' 

Now would you know the minstrel wight 

Who sings of strife so stern, 
Albert the Souter is he hight, 

A burgher of Lucerne. i6o 

A merry man was he, I wot, 

The night he made the lay. 
Returning from the bloody spot 

Where God had judged the day. 



THE NOBLE MORINGER 

AN ANCIENT BALLAD 

Lockhart, writing at the end of April. 
1819, when Scott was recovering from an 
alarming illness, reports thus Scott's words to 
him : — 

' "Odb day there was," he said, "when I cer- 
tainly began to have great doubts whether the 
mischief, was not getting at my mind — and I 
tell you how I tried to reassure myself on that 
score. I was quite unfit for anything like 
original composition ; but I thought if I could 
turn an old German ballad I had been reading 
into decent rhymes, I might dismiss my worst 
apprehensions — and you shall see what came 
of the experiment." He then desired his 
daughter Sophia to fetch the MS. of " The 
Noble Moringer,'' as it had been taken down 
from his dictation, partly by her, and partly by 
Mr. Laidlaw, during one long and painful day 
when he lay in bed.' 

O, WILL you hear a knightly tale of old 

Bohemian day, 
It was the noble Moringer in wedlock bed 

belay; 
He halsed and kissed his dearest dame 

that was as sweet as May, 
And said, * Now, lady of my heart, attend 

the words I say. 

* 'T is I have vowed a pilgrimage unto a 

distant shrine. 
And I must seek Saint Thomas-land and 

leave the land that 's mine ; 
Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, 

so thou wilt pledge thy fay 
That thou for my return wilt wait seven 

twelvemonths and a day.' 



Then out and spoke that lady bright, sore 

troubled in her cheer, 
' Now tell me true, thou noble knight, 

what order takest thou here; lo 

And who shall lead thy vassal band and 

hold thy lordly sway. 
And be thy lady's guardian true when 

thou art far away ? ' 

Out spoke the noble Moringer, * Of that 
have thou no care, 

There 's many a valiant gentleman of me 
holds living fair; 

The trustiest shall rule my land, my vas- 
sals, and my state. 

And be a guardian tried and true to thee, 
my lovely mate. 

* As Christian-man, I needs must keep the 

vow which I have plight. 
When I am far in foreign land, remember 

thy true knight; 
And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, for 

vain were sorrow now. 
But grant thy Moringer his leave, since 

God hath heard his vow.' 20 

It was the noble Moringer from bed he 

made him bonne. 
And met him there his chamberlain with 

ewer and with gown: 
He flung the mantle on his back, 't was 

furred with miniver. 
He dipped his hand in water cold and 

bathed his forehead fair. 

* Now hear,' he said, * Sir Chamberlain, 

true vassal art thou mine. 
And such the trust that I repose in that 

proved worth of thine, 
For seven years shalt thou rule my towers 

and lead my vassal train. 
And pledge thee for my lady's faith till I 

return again.' 

The chamberlain was blunt and true, and 

sturdily said he, 
' Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and 

take this rede from me; 30 

That woman's faith 's a brittle trust — 

Seven twelvemonths didst thou 

say? 
I '11 pledge me for no lady's truth beyond 

the seventh fair dav.' 



THE NOBLE MORINGER 



445 



The noble baron turned him round, his 

heart was full of care, 
His gallant esquire stood him nigh, he was 

Marstetten's heir. 
To whom he spoke right anxiously, * Thou 

trusty squire to me, 
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust when 

I am o'er the sea ? 



* To watch and ward my castle strong, and 

to protect my land. 
And to the hunting or the host to lead my 

vassal band; 
And pledge thee for my lady's faith till 

seven long years are gone. 
And guard her as Our Lady dear was 

guarded by Saint John.* 40 

Marstetten's heir was kind and true, but 
fiery, hot, and young. 

And readily he answer made with too pre- 
sumptuous tongue: 

* My noble lord, cast care away and on 

your journey wend. 
And trust this charge to me until your pil- 
grimage have end. 

* Rely upon my plighted faith, which shall 

be truly tried. 

To guard your lands, and ward your 
towers, and with your vassals ride; 

And for your lovely lady's faith, so virtu- 
ous and so dear, 

I '11 gage my head it knows no change, be 
absent thirty year.' 

The noble Moringer took cheer when thus 
he heard him speak. 

And doubt forsook his troubled brow and 
sorrow left his cheek; 50 

A long adieu he bids to all — hoists top- 
sails and away. 

And wanders in Saint Thomas-land seven 
twelvemonths and a day. 

It was the noble Moringer within an 

orchard slept, 
When on the baron's slumbering sense a 

boding vision crept; 
And whispered in liis ear a voice, * 'T is 

time, Sir Kniglit, to wake, 
Thy lady and thy lu^ritngo another master 

take. 



* Thy tower another banner knows, thy 

steeds another rein. 

And stoop them to another's will thy gal- 
lant vassal train; 

And she, the lady of thy love, so faithful 
once and fair. 

This night within thy fathers' hall she 
weds Marstetten's heir.' 60 

It is the noble Moringer starts up and 
tears his beard, 

* O, would that I had ne'er been born ! 

what tidings have I heard ! 
To lose my lordship and my lands the less 

would be my care. 
But, God ! that e'er a squire untrue should 

wed my lady fair. 

* O good Saint Thomas, hear,' he prayed, 

* my patron saint art thou, 
A traitor robs me of my land even while 

I pay my vow ! 
My wife he brings to infamy that was so 

pure of name. 
And I am far in foreign land and must en- 
dure the shame.' 

It was the good Saint Thomas then who 
heard his pilgrim's prayer. 

And sent a sleep so deep and dead that it 
o'erpowered his care; 70 

He waked in fair Bohemian land out- 
stretched beside a rill, 

High on the right a castle stood, low on 
the left a mill. 

The Moringer he started up as one from 

spell unbound, 
And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed 

wildly all around; 

* I know my fathers' ancient towers, the 

mill, the stream I know, 
Now blessed be my patron saint who 
cheered his pilgrim's woe ! * 

He leant upon his pilgrim staff and to the 
mill he drew. 

So altered was his goodly form that none 
their master know; 

The baron to the miller said, *Good friend, 
for charity, 

Toll a poor palmer in your land what tid- 
ings may there be ? ' 80 



446 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



The miller answered him again, * He knew 

of little news, 
Save that the lady of the land did a new 

bridegroom choose; 
Her husband died in distant land, such is 

the constant word. 
His death sits heavy on our souls, he was 

a worthy lord. 

* Of him I held the little mill which wins 

me living free, 
God rest the baron in his grave, he still 

was kind to me ! 
And when Saint Martin's tide comes round 

and millers take their toll, 
The priest that prays for Moringer shall 

have both cope and stole.' 

It was the noble Moringer to climb the hill 

began. 
And stood before the bolted gate a woe and 

weary man; 90 

* Now help me, every saint in heaven that 

can compassion take. 
To gain the entrance of my hall this wof ul 
match to break.' 

His very knock it sounded sad, his call was 

sad and slow, 
For heart and head, and voice and hand, 

were heavy all with woe; 
And to the warder thus he spoke: * Friend, 

to thy lady say, 
A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves 

harbor for a day. 

* I 've wandered many a weary step, my 

strength is well-nigh done. 
And if she turn me from her gate I '11 see 

no morrow's sun; 
I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, a 

pilgrim's bed and dole. 
And for the sake of Moringer's, her once- 
loved husband's soul.' 100 

It was the stalwart warder then he came 

his dame before, 
*A pilgrim, worn and travel- toiled, stands 

at the castle-door; 
And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, 

for harbor and for dole. 
And for the sake of Moringer, thy noble 

husband's soul.' 



The lady's gentle heart was moved: ' Do up 
the gate,' she said, 

* And bid the wanderer welcome be to ban- 

quet and to bed; 
And since he names my husband's name, 

so that he lists to stay. 
These towers shall be his harborage a 

twelvemonth and a day.' 

It was the stalwart warder then undid the 

portal broad. 
It was the noble Moringer that o'er the 

threshold strode; no 

* And have thou thanks, kind Heaven,' he 

said, * though from a man of sin, 
That the true lord stands here once more 
his castle-gate within/ 

Then up the halls paced Moringer, his step 

was sad and slow; 
It sat full heavy on his heart none seemed 

their lord to know; 
He sat him on a lowly bench, oppressed 

with woe and wrong. 
Short space he sat, but ne'er to him seemed 

little space so long. 

Now spent was day and feasting o'er, and 

come was evening hour, 
The time was nigh when new-made brides 

retire to nuptial bower; 

* Our castle's wont,' a bridesman said, *hath 

been both firm and long 
No guest to harbor in our halls till he shall 
chant a song.' 120 

Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there 
as he sat by the bride, 

* My merry minstrel folk,' quoth he, * lay 

shalm and harp aside; 

Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the cas- 
tle's rule to hold. 

And well his guerdon will I pay with gar- 
ment and with gold.' 

* Chill flows the lay of frozen age,' 't was 

thus the pilgrim sung, 

* Nor golden meed nor garment gay unlocks 

his heavy tongue; 
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at 

board as rich as thine. 
And by my side as fair a bride with all her 

charms was mine^ 



EPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE 



447 



* But time traced furrows on my face and I 

grew silver-haired, 
For locks of brown and cheeks of youth 

she left this brow and beard; 130 
Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread 

life's latest stage. 
And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay 

of frozen age.' 

It was the noble lady there this woful lay 

that hears. 
And for the aged pilgrim's grief her eye 

was dimmed with tears ; 
She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden 

beaker take, . 
And bear it to the palmer poor to quaff it 

for her sake. 

It was the noble Moringer that dropped 

amid the wine 
A bridal ring of burning gold so costly and 

so fine: 
Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you 

but the sooth, 
'T was with that very ring of gold he 

pledged his bridal truth. 140 

Then to the cupbearer he said, * Do me 

one kindly deed, 
And should my better days return, full rich 

shall be thy meed; 
Bear back the golden cup again to yonder 

bride so gay. 
And crave her of her courtesy to pledge 

the palmer gray.' 

The cupbearer was courtly bred nor was 

the boon denied, 
The golden cup he took again and bore it 

to the bride ; 

* Lady,' he said, * your reverend guest sends 

this, and bids me pray 
That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge 
the palmer gray.' 

The ring hath caught the lady's eye, she 

views it close and near. 
Then might you hear lier shriek aloud, 

* The Moringer is here ! ' is^ 

Then might you see her start from seat 

while tears in torrents fell, 
But whether 't was for joy or woe the ladies 

best can tell. 



But loud she uttered thanks to Heaven and 

every saintly power 
That had returned the Moringer before the 

midnight hour; 
And loud she uttered vow on vow that 

never was there bride 
That had like her preserved her troth or 

been so sorely tried. 

* Yes, here I claim the praise,' she said, * to 

constant matrons due, 
Who keep the troth that they have plight 

so steadfastly and true; 
For count the term howe'er you will, so 

that you count aright. 
Seven twelvemonths and a day are out 

when bells toll twelve to-night.' 160 

It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion 

there he drew, 
He kneeled before the Moringer and down 

his weapon threw; 
*My oath and knightly faith are broke,' 

these were the words he said, 
*Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, 

and take thy vassal's head.' 

The noble Moringer he smiled, and then 
aloud did say, 

* He gathers wisdom that hath roamed 

seven twelvemonths and a day; 
My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame 

speaks her sweet and fair, 
I give her for the bride you lose and name 

her for my heir. 

* The young bridegroom hath youthful 

bride, the old bridegroom the old, 
Whose faith was kept till term and tide so 

punctually were told; 170 

But blessings on the warder kind that oped 

my castle gate, 
For had I come at morrow tide I came a 

day too late.' 



EPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE 

Mrs. Erakino was tho wifo of Scott's friend, 
WilHaiii Ei^skiius aftorwjird Lord KiiUMlder. 
Sho (liiul in SeptcnihtT, ISIU, luul tho opitAph 
is on the stono over her gnivo at ISaline, in tiio 
county of Fife. 

Plain as her native dignity of mind, 
Arise tho tomb of her we have resigned; 



448 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Uuflawed and stainless be the marble scroll, 
Emblem of lovely form and candid soul. — 
But, O, what symbol may avail to tell 
The kindness, wit, and sense we loved so 

well ! 
What sculpture show the broken ties of life. 
Here buried with the parent, friend, and 

wife ! 
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear 
By which thine urn, Euphemia, claims the 

tear ! 
Yet taught by thy meek sufferance to as- 
sume 
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb, 
Resigned, though sad, this votive verse 

shall flow. 
And brief, alas ! as thy brief span below. 



SONGS FROM THE BRIDE OF 
LAMMERMOOR 



' LOOK NOT THOU ON BEAUTY'S CHARM- 
ING ' 

From Chapter iii. * The silver tones of Lucy 
Ashton's voice mingled with the accompani- 
ment in an ancient air, to which some one had 
adapted the following words : ' — 

Look not thou on beauty's charming; 
Sit thou still when kings are arming; 
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens ; 
Speak not when the people listens; 
Stop thine ear against the singer; 
From the red gold keep thy finger; 
Vacant heart and hand and eye. 
Easy live and quiet die. 



II 

<THE MONK MUST ARISE WHEN THE 
MATINS ring' 

From Chapter iii. ' And humming his rus- 
tic roundelay, the yeoman went on his road, the 
sound of his rough voice gradually dying away 
as the distance betwixt them increased.' 

The monk must arise when the matins ring. 
The abbot may sleep to their chime ; 

But the yeoman must start when the bugles 
sing, 
'T is time, my hearts, 't is time. 



There 's bucks and raes on Billhope braes, 
There 's a herd on Shortwood Shaw; 

But a lily-white doe in the garden goes, 
She 's fairly worth them a'. 



Ill 



* WHEN THE LAST LAIRD OF RAVENS- 
WOOD TO RAVENSWOOD SHALL RIDE ' 

From Chapter xviii. * With a quivering voice, 
and a cheek pale with apprehension, Caleb 
faltered out the following lines : ' — 

When the last Laird of Ravens wood to 

Ravenswood shall ride. 
And woo a dead maiden to be bis bride. 
He shall stable his steed in the Kelpie's 

flow. 
And his name shall be lost for evermoe ! 



SONGS FROM THE LEGEND OF 
MONTROSE 



ANCIENT GAELIC MELODY 

Birds of omen dark and foul. 
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl, 
Leave the sick man to his dream — 
All night long he heard you scream. 
Haste to cave and ruined tower, 
Ivy tod or dingled bower, 
There to wink and mop, for, hark ! 
Li the mid air sings the lark. 

Hie to moorish gills and rocks, 
Prowling wolf and wily fox, — 
Hie ye fast, nor turn your view. 
Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. 
Couch your trains and speed your flight, j 
Safety parts with parting night; j 

And on distant echo borne. 
Comes the hunter's early horn. 

The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams. 
Ghost-like she fades in morning beams; 
Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay 
That scare the pilgrim on his way. — 
Quench, kelpy ! quench, in bog and fen, 
Thy torch that cheats benighted men; 
Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done, 
For Benyieglo hath seen the sun. 



VERSES FROM IVANHOE 



449 



Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and 

deep, 
O'erpower the passive mind in sleep. 
Pass from the slumberer's soul away, 
Like night-mists from the brow of day. 
Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim 
Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, 
Spur thy dark palfrey and begone ! 
Thou darest not face the godlike sun. 



II 



THE ORPHAN MAID 

November's hail-cloud drifts away, 

November's sun-beam wan 
Looks coldly on the castle gray, 

When forth comes Lady Anne. 

The orphan by the oak was set. 
Her arms, her feet, were bare; 

The hail-drops had not melted yet 
Amid her raven hair. 

« And, dame,' she said, * by all the ties 

That child and mother know. 
Aid one who never knew these joys, — 

Relieve an orphan's woe.' 

The lady said, * An orphan's state 

Is hard and sad to bear; 
Yet worse the widowed mother's fate. 

Who mourns both lord and heir. 

* Twelve times the rolling year has sped 

Since, while from vengeance wild 
Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled, 
Forth's eddies whelmed my child.' 

'Twelve times the year its course has 
borne,' 

The wandering maid replied; 
< Since fishers on Saint Bridget's morn 

Drew nets on Campsie side. 

* Saint Bridget sent no scaly spoil; 

An infant, well-nigh dead. 
They saved and reared in want and toil, 
To beg from you her bread.' 

That orphan maid the lady kissed, 
*My husband's looks you bear; 

Saint Bridget and her morn be blessed I 
You are his widow's heir.' 



They 've robed that maid, so poor and 
pale. 

In silk and sandals rare ; 
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail, 

Are glistening in her hair. 



VERSES FROM IVANHOE 

Published in 1819. 

I 

THE crusader's RETURN 

From Chapter xvii. 

High deeds achieved of knightly fame, 
From Palestine the champion came; 
The cross upon his shoulders borne, 
Battle and blast had dimmed and torn. 
Each dint upon his battered shield 
Was token of a foughten field; 
And thus, beneath his lady's bower. 
He sung, as fell the twilight hour: 

* Joy to the fair ! — thy knight behold. 
Returned from yonder land of gold ; 

No wealth he brings, nor wealth can 

need, 
Save his good arms and battle-steed; 
His spurs to dash against a foe. 
His lance and sword to lay him low; 
Such all the trophies of his toil 
Such — and the hope of Tekla's smile I 

* Joy to the fair ! whose constant knight 
Her favor fired to feats of might I 
Unnoted shall she not remain 

Where meet the bright and noble train; 
Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell — 
" Mark yonder maid of beauty well, 
'T is she for whose bright eyes was won 
The listed field at Ascalon ! 

* " Note well her smile I — it edged the 

blade 
Which fifty wives to widows made. 
When, vain his strength and Mahound's 

spell, 
Iconium's turbanM Soldan fell. 
Sce'st thou her locks, whose suiniy »;low 
Half shows, half shados, her nei'k of snow 7 
Twines not of them one golden thread. 
But for its sake a Payuim bled/' 



4SO 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



* Joy to the fair ! — my name unknown, 
Each deed, and all its praise, thine own; 
Then, oh ! unbar this churlish gate. 
The night-dew falls, the hour is late. 
Inured to Syria's glowing breath, 
I feel the north breeze chill as death; 
Let grateful love quell maiden shame, 
And grant him bliss who brings thee fame/ 



II 

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR 
From Chapter xvii. 

I 'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth 

or twain 
To search Europe through from Byzantium 

to Spain; 
But ne'er shall you find, should you search 

till you tire, 
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. 

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in 
career. 

And is brought home at even-song pricked 
through with a spear; 

I confess him in haste — for his lady de- 
sires 

No comfort on earth save the Barefooted 
Friar's. 

Your monarch ! — Pshaw ! many a prince 

has been known 
To barter his robes for our cowl and our 

gown, 
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire 
To exchange for a crown the gray hood of 

a friar ? 

The Friar has walked out, and where'er he 

has gone 
The land and its fatness is marked for his 

own; 
He can roam where he lists, he can stop 

where he tires, 
For every man's house is the Barefooted 

Friar's. 

He 's expected at noon, and no wight till 

he comes 
May profane the great chair or the porridge 

of plums: 



For the best of the cheer, and the seat by 

the fire. 
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted 

Friar. 

He's expected at night, and the pasty's 
made hot. 

They broach the brown ale and they fill the 
black pot; 

And the good-wife would wish the good- 
man in the mire. 

Ere he lacked a soft pillow, the Barefooted 
Friar. 

Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the 

cope, 
The dread of the devil and trust of the 

Pope ! 
For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the 

briar, 
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar. 



ni 



* NORMAN SAW ON ENGLISH OAK ' 

From Chapter xxvii. 

NoRMAN saw on English oak. 

On English neck a Norman yoke; 

Norman spoon in English dish. 

And England ruled as Normans wish; 

Blithe world in England never will be more, 

Till England 's rid of all the four. 



IV 



WAR-SONG 

From Chapter xxxi. * The fire was spreading 
rapidly through all parts of the castle, when 
Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a 
turret, in the guise of one of the aDcient furies, 
yelling forth a war-song, such as was of yore 
chanted on the field of battle by the scalds of 
the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled 
gray hair flew back from her uncovered head, 
the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance 
contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity, 
and she brandished the distaff which she held 
in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal 
Sisters, who spin and abridge the thread of hu- 
man life. Tradition has preserved some wild 
strophes of the barbarous hymn which she 



VERSES FROM IVANHOE 



451 



chanted wildly amid that scene of fire and 
slaughter.' 



Whet the bright steel, 

Sons of the White Dragon ! 

Kindle the torch, 

Daughter of Hengist ! 

The steel glimmers not for the carving of 

the banquet, 
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed; 
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber. 
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur. 
Whet the steel, the raven croaks ! 
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling ! 
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon ! 
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist ! 



The black clouds are low over the thane's 
castle; 

The eagle screams — he rides on their 
bosom. 

Scream not, gray rider of the sable cloud, 

Thy banquet is prepared ! 

The maidens of Valhalla look forth, 

The race of Hengist will send them guests. 

Shake your black tresses, maidens of Val- 
halla ! 

And strike your loud timbrels for joy ! 

Many a haughty step bends to your halls, 

Many a helmed head. 



Dark sits the evening upon the thane ^s 

castle. 
The black clouds gather round; 
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the 

valiant ! 
The destroyer of forests shall shake his red 

crest against them; 
He, the bright consumer of palaces. 
Broad waves he his blazing banner, 
Red, white, and dusky, 
Over the strife of the valiant; 
His joy is in the clashing swords and broken 

bucklers; 
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it 

bursts warm from the wound ! 



All must perish ! 

The sword cleavetli the helmet; 

The strong armor is pierced by the laucc: 

Fire devoureth the cT welling of princes, 



Engines break down the fences of the 

battle. 
All must perish ! 
The race of Hengist is gone — 
The name of Horsa is no more ! 
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of 

the sword ! 
Let your blades drink blood like wine; 
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter, 
By the light of the blazing halls ! 
Strong be your swords while your blood is 

warm. 
And spare neither for pity nor fear, 
For vengeance hath but an hour; 
Strong hate itself shall expire ! 
I also must perish. 



REBECCA'S HYMN 
From Chapter xxxix. 

When Israel of the Lord beloved 

Out from the land of bondage came, 
Her fathers' God before her moved, 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonished lands 

The cloudy pillar glided slow; 
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 

Returned the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise, 

And trump and timbrel answered keen, 
And Zion's daughters poured their lays. 

With priest's and warrior's voice be- 
tween. 
No portents now our foes amaze. 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone: 
Our fathers would not know Thy ways, 

And Thou hast left them to their own. 

But present still, though now unseen, 

When brightly shines the prosperous 
day, 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 

To temper the deceitful ray f 
And O, when stoops on .Judah's path 

In sliade and storm the froipient nighty 
Be Thou, long-suiVering, sh>w to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light ! 

Our liarps wo left by Babel's streams, 
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; 



452 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute are timbrel, barp, and born. 

But Tbou bast said, Tbe blood of goat, 
Tbe flesb of rams I will not prize; 

A contrite beart, a bumble tbougbt, 
Are mine accepted sacrifice. 



VI 



THE BLACK KNIGHT AND WAMBA 

From Cbapter xi. ' At tbe point of tbeir 
journey at wbicb we take tbem up. tbis joyous 
pair were engaged in singing a virelai, as it 
was called, in wbicb tbe clown bore a mellow 
burtben to tbe better instructed Knigbt of tbe 
Fetterlock. And tbus ran tbe ditty : ' — 

Axna-Marie, love, up is tbe sun, 

Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun, 

Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing 

free, 
Up in tbe morning, love, Anna-Marie. 

Anna-Marie, love, up in tbe morn, 

Tbe bunter is winding blitbe sounds on bis 

born, 
Tbe ecbo rings merry from rock and from 

tree, 
'Tis time to arouse tbee, love, Anna-Marie. 



O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet, 
Around my soft pillow wbile softer dreams 

flit; 
For wbat are tbe joys tbat in waking we 

prove. 
Compared witb tbese visions, O Tybalt, 

my love ? 
Let tbe birds to tbe rise of tbe mist carol 

sbrill, 
Let tbe bunter blow out bis loud born on 

tbe bill, 
Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber 

I prove, 
But tbink not I dreamed of thee, Tybalt, 

my love. 

vn 

ANOTHER CAROL BY THE SAME 

* The Jester next struck into another carol, a 
sort of comic ditty, to which the Knight, catch- 
ing up the tune, replied in the like manner.' 



K^^GHT A^'D waxba 

There came three merry men from south, 

west, and north. 
Evermore sing tbe roundelay; 
To win tbe Widow of Wycombe forth. 
And where was tbe widow might say 

them nay ? 

The first was a knight, and trom Tynedale 

be came, 
Evermore sing tbe roundelay; 
And bis fathers, God save us, were men of 

great fame. 
And where was the widow might say him 

nay ? 

Of his father tbe laird, of his uncle the 
squire, 
He boasted in rhyme and in rounde- 
lay; 
She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire. 
For she was the widow would say him 
nay. 

WAMBA 

The next that came forth, swore by blood 

and by nails, 
Merrily sing tbe roundelay; 
Hur 's a gentleman, God wot, and hur's 

lineage was of Wales, 
And where was the widow might say him 

nay ? 

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh 
Ap Tudor Ap Rhice, quoth his rounde- 
lay; 
She said that one widow for so many was 
too few. 
And she bade the Welshman wend his 
way. 

But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of 
Kent, 
Jollily singing bis roundelay; 
He spoke to tbe widow of living and rent, 
And where was the widow could say 
him nay ? 

BOTH 

So tbe knigbt and tbe squire were both left 
in tbe mire, 
There for to sing tbe roundelay; 
For a yeoman of Kent, witb bis yearly rent, 
There ne'er was a widow could say him 
nay. 



VERSES FROM THE MONASTERY 



453 



VIII 

FUNERAL HYMN 

From Chapter xlii. 

Dust unto dust, 
To this all must; 

The tenant hath resigned 
The faded form 
To waste and worm — 

Corruption claims her kind. 

Through paths unknown 
Thy soul hath flown 

To seek the realms of woe, 
Where fiery pain 
Shall purge the stain 

Of actions done below. 

In that sad place, 
By Mary's grace, 

Brief may thy dwelling be ! 
Till prayers and alms. 
And holy psalms. 

Shall set the captive free. 



VERSES FROM THE MONASTERY 

Published in 1820. 

I 

ANSWER TO INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE 

Take thou no scorn. 
Of fiction born, 

Fair fiction's muse to woo; 
Old Homer's theme 
Was but a dream. 

Himself a fiction too. 

II 

BORDER SONG 

From Chapter xxv. 

I 

March, march, Ettrick and Tcviotdalo, 
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in 
order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 



All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the 
Border. 

Many a banner spread. 
Flutters above your head. 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 
Mount and make ready then, 
Sons of the mountain glen. 
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish 
glory. 



Come from the hills where your hirsels are 
grazing. 
Come from the glen of the buck and the 
roe; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blaz- 
ing, 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and 
the bow. 

Trumpets are sounding. 
War-steeds are bounding. 
Stand to your arms and march in good 
order; 

England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray. 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the 
Border. 



Ill 

SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL 

From Chapter v. 

FORDING THE RIVER 

I 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines 

bright, 
Both current and ripple are dancing in 

light. ; 

We have roused the night raven, I heard 

him croak, 
As we plashed ak)ng beneath the oak 
That flings its broad branches so far and so 

wide, 
Their shadows are dancing in midst of the 

tide. 

* Who wakens my nestlings ! * the raven 

he said, 

* My beak shall ere morn in his blood be 

red I 



454 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal, 
And I '11 have my share with the pike and 
the eel.' 



Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright. 
There's a golden gleam on the distant height: 
There 's a silver shower on the alders dank. 
And the drooping willows that wave on the 

bank. 
I see the Abbey, both turret and tower, 
It is all astir for the vesper hour; 
The Monks for the chapel are leaving each 

cell. 
But where 's Father Philip should toll the 

beU? 



Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright. 
Downward we drift through shadow and 

light. 
Under yon rock the eddies sleep. 
Calm and silent, dark and deep. 
The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless 

pool. 
He has lighted his candle of death and of 

dool : 
Look, Father, look, and you '11 laugh to see 
How he gapes and glares with his eyes on 

thee! 



Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye 

to-night ? 
A man of mean or a man of might ? 
Is it layman or priest that must float in 

your cove. 
Or lover who crosses to visit his love ? 
Hark ! heard ye the Kelpy reply as we 

passed, 
* God's blessing on the warder, he locked 

the bridge fast ! 
All that come to my cove are sunk, 
Priest or layman, lover or monk.' 



Landed — landed ! the black book hath 

won. 
Else had you seen Berwick with morning 

sun ! 
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be. 
For seldom they land that go swimming 

with me. 



IV 

TO THE SUB-PRIOR 
From Chapter ix. 

Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as 

you ride, 
With your mule so fair, and your mantle 

so wide; 
But ride you through valley, or ride you 

o'er hill. 
There is one that has warrant to wait on 

you still. 
Back, back, 
The volume black ! 
I have a warrant to carry it back. 

What, ho ! Sub-Prior, and came you but 

here 
To conjure a book from a dead woman's 

bier? 
Sain you, and save you, be wary and 

wise. 
Ride back with the book, or you '11 pay for 

your prize. 
Back, back. 

There 's death in the track ! 
In the name of my master, I bid thee bear 

back. 

* In the name of my Master,' said the aston- 
ished Monk, ' that name before which all things 
created tremble, I conjure thee to say what 
thou art that hauntest me thus ? ' 

The same voice replied, — 

That which is neither ill nor well. 

That which belongs not to heaven nor to 

hell, 
A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the 

stream, 
'Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping 

dream ; 

A form that men spy 
With the half-shut eye 
In the beams of the setting sun, am I. 



Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me m; 

right ! 
Like the star when it shoots, I can dart 

through the night; 
I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the 

air, 



1 



VERSES FROM THE MONASTERY 



455 



And travel the world with the bonny night- 
mare. 

Again, again, 
At the crook of the glen, 
Where bickers the burnie, I '11 meet thee 
again. 



Men of good are bold as sackless. 
Men of rude are wild and reckless. 

Lie thou still 

In the nook of the hill, 
For those be before thee that wish thee ill. 



halbert's incantation 
From Chapter xi. 

Thrice to the holly brake — 
Thrice to the well : — 

I bid thee awake. 

White Maid of Avenel ! 

Noon gleams on the Lake — 
Noon glows on the Fell — 

Wake thee, O wake. 
White Maid of Avenel. 



VI 



TO HALBERT 

From Chapter xii. 

THE WHITE MAID OF AVENEL 

Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst 

thou call me ? 
Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can 

appall thee ? 
He that seeks to deal with us must know 

nor fear, nor failing; 
To coward and churl our speech is dark, 

our gifts are unavailing. 
The breeze that brought me hither now 

must sweep Egyptian ground, 
• The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby 

is bound; 
The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze 

sighs for my stay. 
For I must sail a thousand miles before 

the close of day. 



What I am I must not show, — 
What I am thou couldst not know — 
Something betwixt heaven and hell — 
Something that neither stood nor fell — 
Something that through thy wit or will 
May work thee good — may work thee 

ill. 
Neither substance quite, nor shadow, 
Haunting lonely moor and meadow, 
Dancing by the haunted spring, 
Riding on the whirlwind's wing; 
Aping in fantastic fashion 
Every change of human passion. 
While o'er our frozen minds they pass, 
Like shadows from the mirrored glass. 
Wayward, fickle, is our mood, 
Hovering betwixt bad and good. 
Happier than brief-dated man, 
Living twenty times his span; 
Far less happy, for we have 
Help nor hope beyond the grave ! 
Man awakes to joy or sorrow; 
Ours the sleep that knows no morrow. 
This is all that I can show — 
This is all that thou may'st know. 



Ay ! and I taught thee the word and the 

spell 
To waken me here by the Fairies* Well. 
But thou hast loved the heron and hawk, 
More than to seek my haunted walk; 
And thou hast loved the lance and the swortl. 
More than good text and holy wortl ; 
And thou hast loved the deer to track, 
More than the lines and the letters black; 
And thou art a ranger of moss and woo<l, 
And scornest the nurture of gentle blood. 



Thy craven fear my truth accused. 
Thine idlehood my trust abused; 
lie that draws to harbor late, 
Must sleep witliout, or burst the gate. 
Tliero is a star for thoo which burned, 
Its inilnonco wanes, its course is turned; 
Valor and constancy alone 
Can bring thee back the ohanoe that's 
flown. 



Within that awful volume lies 
The mystery of mysteries I 



45^ 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Happiest they of human race, 
To whom God has granted grace 
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray. 
To lift the latch, and force the way; 
And better had they ne'er been born, 
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. 



Many a fathom dark and deep 
I have laid the book to sleep ; 
Ethereal fires around it glowing — 
Ethereal music ever flowing — 

The sacred pledge of Heaven 
All things revere. 
Each in his sphere, 

Save man for whom 't was given: 
Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy 
Things ne'er seen by mortal eye. 



Fearest thou to go with me ? 
Still it is free to thee 

A peasant to dwell; 
Thou may'st drive the dull steer, 
And chase the king's deer, 
But never more come near 

This haunted well. 



Here lies the volume thou hast boldly 

sought; 
Touch it, and take it, 'twill dearly be 

bought. 



Rash thy deed, 

Mortal weed 
To immortal flames applying; 

Rasher trust 

Has thing of dust. 
On his own weak worth relying: 
Strip thee of such fences vain. 
Strip, and prove thy luck again. 



Mortal warp and mortal woof 
Cannot brook this charmed roof; 
All that mortal art hath wrought 
In our cell returns to nought. 
The molten gold returns to clay. 
The polished diamond melts away; 
All is altered, all is flown, 
Nought stands fast but truth alone. 



Not for that thy quest give o'er: 
Courage ! prove thy chance once more. 



Alas ! alas ! 

Not ours the grace 

These holy characters to trace: 

Idle forms of painted air, 

Not to us is given to share 
The boon bestowed on Adam's race. 

With patience bide, 

Heaven will provide 
The fitting time, the fitting guide. 



VII 
TO THE SAME 

From Chapter xvii. * She spoke, and her 
speech was still song, or rather measured 
chant ; but, as if now more familiar, it flowed 
occasionally in modulated blank verse, and, at 
other times, in the lyrical measure which she 
had used at their former meeting.' 

This is the day when the fairy kind 
Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot. 
And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing 

wind, 
And the mermaiden weeps in her crystal 

grot; 
For this is a day that the deed was 

wrought. 
In which we have neither part nor share. 
For the children of clay was salvation 

bought, ^m 

But not for the forms of sea or air ! ^^Bl 

And ever the mortal is most forlorn, ^ 

Who meeteth our race on the Friday morn. 



Daring youth ! for thee it is well, 

Here calling me in haunted dell, 

That thy heart has not quailed, 

Nor thy courage failed. 

And that thou couldst brook 

The angry look 

Of Her of Avenel. 

Did one limb shiver. 

Or an eyelid quiver. 

Thou wert lost for ever. 
Though I am formed from the 

blue, 
And my blood is of the unfallen dew, 



ether 



"nd thou art 



VERSES FROM THE MONASTERY 



457 



id thou art framed of mud and dust, 
'T is thine to speak, reply I must. 



i 



A mightier wizard far than I 
Wields o'er the universe his power; 
Him owns the eagle in the sky, 
The turtle in the bower. 
Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still, 
He wields the heart of man at will, 
From ill to good, from good to ill, 
In cot and castle-tower. 



Ask thy heart, whose secret cell 

Is filled with Mary Avenel I 

Ask thy pride, why scornful look 

In Mary's view it will not brook ? 

Ask it, why thou seek'st to rise 

Among the mighty and the wise, — 

Why thou spurn'st thy lowly lot, — 

Why thy pastimes are forgot, — 

Why thou wouldst in bloody strife 

Mend thy luck or lose thy life ? 

Ask thy heart, and it shall tell. 

Sighing from its secret cell, 

'T is for Mary Avenel. 

Do not ask me ; 

On doubts like these thou canst not task me. 

We only see the passing show 

Of human passions' ebb and flow; 

And view the pageant's idle glance 

As mortals eye the northern dance, 

When thousand streamers, flashing bright, 

Career it o'er the brow of night. 

And gazers mark their changeful gleams. 

But feel no influence from their beams. 



By ties mysterious linked, our fated race 
Holds strange connection with the sons of 

men. 
The star that rose upon the House of 

Avenel, 
When Norman Ulric first assumed the 

name, 
That star, when culminating in its orbit, 
Shot from its spear a drop of diamond 

dew. 
And this bright font received it — and a 

Spirit 



Rose from the fountain, and her date of 
life 

Hath coexistence with the House of Ave- 
nel, 

And with the star that rules it. 



Look on my girdle — on this thread of 

gold — 
'T is fine as web of lightest gossamer, 
And, but there is a spell on 't, would not 

bind. 
Light as they are, the folds of my thin 

robe. 
But when 't was donned, it was a massive 

chain. 
Such as might bind the champion of the 

Jews, 
Even when his locks were longest — it 

hath dwindled, 
Hath 'minished in its substance and its 

strength. 
As sunk the greatness of the House of 

Avenel. 
When this frail thread gives way, I to the 

elements 
Resign the principles of life they lent 

me. 
Ask me no more of this ! — the stars for- 
bid it. 



Dim burns the once bright star of Ave- 
nel, 

Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh, 

And the o'er-wearied warder leaves the 
lighthouse; 

There is an influence sorrowful and fear- 
ful. 

That dogs its downward course. Disas- 
trous passion, 

Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect 

That lowers upon its fortunes. 



Complain not on nio, child of clay, 
If to thy harm I yiold the way. 
We, who soar thy sphere above, 
Know not might of Imte or love; 
As will or wisdom rules tliy nuxxl, 
My gifts to evil turn or good. 
When Piercio Shafton boastoth high, 



458 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Let this token meet his eye. 

The sun is westering from the dell, 

Thy wish is granted — fare thee well ! 



VIII 

TO THE SAME 

From Chapter xx. 

He, whose heart for vengeance sued, 
Must not shrink from shedding blood; 
The knot that thou hast tied with word, 
Thou must loose by edge of sword. 



You have summoned me once, you have 

summoned me twice, 
And without e'er a summons I come to you 

thrice ; 
Unasked for, unsued for, you came to my 

glen, 
Unsued and unasked, I am with you again. 



IX 



TO MARY AVENEL 

From Chapter xxx. 

Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living 
Dead, 
Whose eyes shall commune with the 
Dead Alive, 
Maiden, attend ! Beneath my foot lies 
hid 
The Word, the Law, the Path which 
thou dost strive 
To find, and canst not find. Could Spirits 
shed 
Tears for their lot, it were my lot to 
weep, 
Showing the road which I shall never 
tread, 
Though my foot points it. Sleep, eter- 
nal sleep, 
Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot ! 

But do not thou at human ills repine; 
Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot 
For all the woes that wait frail Adam's 
line — 
Stoop then and make it yours, — I may 
not make it mine ! 



TO EDWARD GLENDINNING 



From Chapter 



Thou who seek'st my fountain lone. 
With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st not 

own; 
Whose heart within leaped wildly glad. 
When most his brow seemed dark and sad; 
Hie thee back, thou find'st not here 
Corpse or coffin, grave or bier; 
The Dead Alive is gone and fled: 
Go thou and join the Living Dead ! 

The Living Dead, whose sober brow 

Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast 

now. 
Whose hearts within are seldom cured 
Of passions by their vows abjured; 
Where, under sad and solemn show, 
Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow. 
Seek the convent's vaulted room. 
Prayer and vigil be thy doom: 
Doff the green, and don the grey, 
To the cloister hence away ! 



XI 



THE WHITE lady's FAREWELL 

From Chapter xxxvii. 

Fare thee well, thou Holly green ! 

Thou shalt seldom now be seen. 

With all thy glittering garlands bending, 

As to greet my slow descending. 

Startling the bewildered hind, 

Who sees thee wave without a wind. 

Farewell, Fountain ! now not long 
Shalt thou murmur to my song. 
While thy crystal bubbles glancing, 
Keep the time in mystic dancing. 
Rise and swell, are burst and lost. 
Like mortal schemes by fortune crossed. 

The knot of fate at length is tied, 
The Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride ! 
Vainly did my magic sleight 
Send the lover from her sight; 
Witlier bush, and perish well. 
Fallen is lofty Avenel ! 



VERSES FROM THE PIRATE 



4S9 



GOLDTHRED'S SONG 

FROM KENILWORTH 
Published in 1821. 

From Chapter ii. ' After some brief inter- 
val, Master Goldthred, at the earnest instiga- 
tion of mine host, and the joyous concurrence 
of his guests, indulged the company with the 
following morsel of melody : ' — 

Of all the birds on bush or tree, 

Commend me to the owl, 
Since he may best ensample be 
To those the cup that trowl. 
For when the sun hath left the west. 
He chooses the tree that he loves the 

best. 
And he whoops out his song, and he laughs 

at his jest; 
Then though hours be late, and weather 

foul, 
We '11 drink to the health of the bonny, 
bonny owl. 

The lark is but a bumpkin fowl. 

He sleeps in his nest till morn; 
But my blessing upon the jolly owl. 
That all night blows his horn. 
Then up with your cup till you stagger in 

speech. 
And match me this catch though you swag- 
ger and screech. 
And drink till you wink, my merry men 

each; 
For though hours be late, and weather be 

foul. 
We *11 drink to the health of the bonny, 
bonny owl. 



VERSES FROM THE PIRATE 

Published in 1821. 

I 

THE SONG OF THE TEMPEST 

From Chapter vi. * A Norwegian invoca- 
tion, still preserved in the island of Uist, under 
the, name of the 8ong of the Reim-kennar, 
though some call it the Song of the Tempest. 
The following is a free translation, it being 
impossible to render literally many of the el- 



liptical and metaphorical terms of expression 
peculiar to the ancient Northern poetry : ' — 



Stern eagle of the far northwest. 
Thou that bearest in thy grasp the thunder- 
bolt, 
Thou whose rushing pinions stir ocean to 

madness, 
Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the scat- 

terer of navies, 
Thou the breaker down of towers, 
Amidst the scream of thy rage, 
Amidst the rushing of thy onward wings. 
Though thy scream be loud as the cry of 

a perishing nation, 
Though the rushing of thy wings be like 

the roar of ten thousand waves. 
Yet hear, in thine ire and thy haste, 
Hear thou the voice of the Reim-kennar. 



Thou hast met the pine-trees of Drontheim, 
Their dark-green heads lie prostrate beside 

their uprooted stems; 
Thou hast met the rider of the ocean, 
The tall, the strong bark of the fearless 

rover. 
And she has struck to thee the topsail 
That she had not veiled to a royal ar- 
mada; 
Thou hast met the tower that bears its crest 

among the clouds, 
The battled massive tower of the Jarl of 

former days. 
And the cope-stone of the turret 
Is lying upon its hospitable hearth; 
But thou too shalt stoop, proud compeller 

of clouds, 
When thou hearest the voice of the Reim- 
kennar. 



There are verses that can stop the stag in 
the forest, 

Ay, and when the dark-colored dog is open- 
ing on his track; 

There are verses can make the wild hawk 
pause on his wing, 

Like the falcon that wears the hood and the 
jesses, 

And who knows the shrill whistle of the 
fowler. 

Thou who canst mock at the scream of the 
drowning mariner, 



460 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And the crash of the ravaged forest, 


Farewell the wild ferry, 


And the groan of the overwhelmed crowds, 


Which Hacon could brave 


When the church hath fallen in the mo- 


When the peaks of the Skerry 


ment of prayer; 


Were white in the wave. 


There are sounds which thou also must list, 


There 's a maid may look over 


When they are chanted by the voice of the 


These wild waves in vain 


E-eim-kennar. 


For the skiff of her lover — 


4 


He comes not again ! 


Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the 


The vows thou hast broke, 


ocean, 


On the wild currents fling them; 


The widows wring their hands on the beach; 


On the quicksand and rock 


Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the 


Let the mermaiden sing them: 


land, 


New sweetness they '11 give her 


The husbandman folds his arms in despair; 


Bewildering strain; 


Cease thou the waving of thy pinions. 


But there 's one who will never 


Let the ocean repose in her dark strength; 


Believe them again. 


Cease thou the flashing of thine eye, 




Let the thunderbolt sleep in the armory of 


0, were there an island, 


Odin; 


Though ever so wild. 


Be thou stiil at my bidding, viewless racer 


Where woman could smile, and 


of the northwestern heaven, — 


No man be beguiled — 


Sleep thou at the voice of Noma the Reim- 


Too tempting a snare 


kennar. 


To poor mortals were given; 




And the hope would fix there 


5 


That should anchor on heaven. 


Eagle of the far northwestern waters. 




Thou hast heard the voice of the Reim- 




kennar. 


Ill 


Thou hast closed thy wide sails at her bid- 




ding. 


SONG OF HAROLD HARFAGER 


And folded them in peace by thy side. 




My blessing be on thy retiring path; 


From Chapter xv. 


When thou stoopest from thy place on high. 




Soft be thy slumbers in the caverns of the 


The sun is rising dimly red. 


unknown ocean, 


The wind is wailing low and dread; 


Rest till destiny shall again awaken thee; 


From his cliff the eagle sallies. 


Eagle of the northwest, thou hast heard 


Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys; 


the voice of the Reim-kennar. 


In the mist the ravens hover, 




Peep the wild dogs from the cover, 




Screaming, croaking, baying, yelling, 


II 


Each in his wild accents telling. 




* Soon we feast on dead and dying, 


HALCRO'S SONG 


Fair-haired Harold's flag is flying.' 


From Chapter xii. 


Many a crest in air is streaming, ^h 




Many a helmet darkly gleaming, ^H 


Farewell to Northmaven, 


Many an arm the axe uprears. 


Grey Hillswicke, farewell ! 


Doomed to hew the wood of spears. 


To the calms of thy haven, 


All along the crowded ranks. 


The storms on thy fell — 


Horses neigh and armor clanks; 


To each breeze that can vary 


Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing, 


The mood of thy main. 


Louder still the bard is singing. 


And to thee, bonny Mary ! 


* Gather, footmen; gather, horsemen. 


We meet not again ! 


To the field, ye valiant Norsemen ! 



VERSES FROM THE PIRATE 



461 



* Halt ye not for food or slumber, 
View not vantage, count not number; 
Jolly reapers, forward still. 

Grow the crop on vale or hill. 
Thick or scattered, stiff or lithe, 
It shall down before the scythe. 
Forward with your sickles bright, 
Reap the harvest of the fight. 
Onward footmen, onward horsemen. 
To the charge, ye gallant Norsemen ! 

* Fatal Choosers of the Slaughter, 
O'er you hovers Odin's daughter; 
Hear the choice she spreads before ye — 
Victory, and wealth, and glory; 

Or old Valhalla's roaring hail. 

Her ever-circling mead and ale, 

Where for eternity unite 

The joys of wassail and of fight. 

Headlong forward, foot and horsemen. 

Charge and fight, and die like Norsemen ! ' 



IV 



SONG OF THE MERMAIDS AND MERMEN 



From Chapter xvi. 



MERMAID 



Fathoms deep beneath the wave. 

Stringing beads of glistering pearl, 
Singing the achievements brave 

Of many an old Norwegian earl; 
Dwelling where the tempest's raving 

Falls as light upon our ear. 
As the sigh of lover, craving 

Pity from his lady dear. 
Children of wild Thule, we. 
From, the deep caves of the sea, 
As the lark springs from the lea. 
Hither come, to share your glee. 



From reining of the water-horse, 

That bounded till the waves were foam- 
ing. 
Watching the infant tempest's course, 

Chasing tlie sea-snake in his roaming; 
From winding charge-notes on the shell, 

When the huge whale and sword-fish 
duel. 
Or tolling shroudless seamen's knell, 

When the winds and waves are cruel ; 
Children of wild Thule, we 



Have ploughed such furrows on the sea, 

As the steer draws on the lea. 

And hither we come to share your glee. 

MERMAIDS AND MERMEN 

We heard you in our twilight caves, 

A hundred fathom deep below. 
For notes of joy can pierce the waves. 

That drown each sound of war and woe. 
Those who dwell beneath the sea 

Love the sons of Thule well; 
Thus, to aid your mirth, bring we 

Dance and song and sounding shell. 
Children of dark Thule, know. 
Those who dwell by haaf and voe. 
Where your daring shallops row. 
Come to share the festal show. 



norna's verses 

From Chapter xix. 

For leagues along the watery way, 

Through gulf and stream my course has 
been; 

The billows know my Runic lay, 

And smooth their crests to silent green. 

The billows know my Runic lay. 

The gulf grows smooth, the stream is 
still; 

But human hearts, more wild than they. 
Know but the rule of wayward will. 

One hour is mine, in all the year. 
To tell my woes, and one alone; 

When gleams this magic lamp, 't is herCj 
When dies the mystic light, 't is gone. 

Daughters of northern Magnus, hail ! 

The lamp is lit, the Hame is clear; 
To you I come to tell my tale, 

Awake, arise, my tale to hear I 



Dwellers of the mountain, rise, 
Trolld the powtM-fiil, Haims the wise ! 
Yn who taught weak woman's tongue 
Words that sway the wise and strong,— 
Y(^ who taught weak woman's hiuid 
How to wield the magic waiul, 
And wake the gales ou Foulab's steep, 



462 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Or lull wild Sumburgh's waves to sleep ! 
Still are ye yet ? Not yours the power 
Ye knew in Odin's mightier hour. 
What are ye now but empty names, 
Powerful TroUd, sagacious Haims, 
That, lightly spoken, and lightly heard, 
Float on the air like thistle's beard ? 



* When I awoke, I saw, through the dim 
light which the upper aperture admitted, the 
unshapely and indistinct form of TroUd the 
dwarf. . . . He spoke, and his words were of 
Norse, so old, that few, save my father or I 
myself, could have comprehended their import.' 

A thousand winters dark have flown. 
Since o'er the threshold of my stone 
A votaress passed, my power to own. 
Visitor bold 
Of the mansion of Trolld, 

Maiden haughty of heart. 
Who hast hither presumed, 
Ungifted, undoomed. 

Thou shalt not depart. 
The power thou dost covet 

O'er tempest and wave. 
Shall be thine, thou proud maiden, 

By beach and by cave. — 
By stack, and by skerry, by noup, and by 

voe. 
By air, and by wick, and by helyer and 

And by every wild shore which the northern 
winds know. 
And the northern tides lave. 
But though this shall be given thee, thou 

desperately brave, 
I doom thee that never the gift thou shalt 
have. 
Till thou reave thy life's giver 
Of the gift which he gave. 

' I answered him in nearly the same strain.' 

Dark are thy words, and severe, 

Thou dweller in the stone ; 
But trembling and fear 

To her are unknown. 
Who hath sought thee here, 

In thy dwelling lone. 
Come what comes soever. 

The worst I can endure ; 
Life is but a short fever, 

And Death is the cure. 



VI 



HALCRO AND NORNA 
From Chapter xxi. 

CLAUD HALCRO 

Mother darksome. Mother dread. 
Dweller on the Fitful-head, 
Thou canst see what deeds are done 
Under the never-setting sun. 
Look through sleet, and look through frost. 
Look to Greenland's caves and coast, — 
By the iceberg is a sail 
Chasing of the swarthy whale; 
Mother doubtful. Mother dread, 
Tell us, has the good ship sped ? 



NORNA 



I 



The thought of the aged is ever on gear, 
On his fishing, his furrow, his flock, and 

his steer; 
But thrive may his fishing, flock, furrow, 

and herd. 
While the aged for anguish shall tear his 

gray beard. 

The ship, well-laden as bark need be. 
Lies deep in the furrow of the Iceland sea, 
The breeze from Zetland blows fair and 

soft, 
And gaily the garland is fluttering aloft: 
Seven good fishes have spouted their last, 
And their jaw-bones are hanging to yard 

and mast: 
Two are for Lerwick, and two for Kirk- 
wall, 
And three for Burgh- Westra, the choicest 
of all. 



CLAUD HALCRO 

Mother doubtful, Mother dread. 
Dweller of the Fitful-head, 
Thou hast conned full many a rhyme, 
That lives upon the surge of time: 
Tell me, shall my lays be sung. 
Like Hacon's of the golden tongue, 
Long after Halcro 's dead and gone ? 
Or, shall Hialtland's minstrel own 
One note to rival glorious John ? 

NORNA 

The infant loves the rattle's noise ; 
Age, double childhood, hath its toys; 
But different far the descant rings, 



I 



VERSES FROM THE PIRATE 



463 



As strikes a different hand the strings. 
The eagle mounts the polar sky: 
The Imber-goose, unskilled to fly, 
Must be content to glide along, 
Where seal and sea-dog list his song. 

CLAUD HALCRO 

Be mine the Imber-goose to play, 
And haunt lone cave and silent bay; 
The archer's aim so shall I shun; 
So shall I 'scape the levelled gun; 
Content my verses' tuneless jingle 
With Thule's sounding tides to mingle, 
While, to the ear of wondering wight, 
Upon the distant headland's height. 
Softened by murmur of the sea, 
The rude sounds seem like harmony ! 

Mother doubtful, Mother dread, 

Dweller of the Fitful-head, 

A gallant bark from far abroad. 

Saint Magnus hath her in his road. 

With guns and firelocks not a few: 

A silken and a scarlet crew, 

Deep stored with precious merchandise 

Of gold, and goods of rare device : 

What interest hath our comrade bold 

In bark and crew, in goods and gold ? 

NORNA 

Gold is ruddy, fair, and free. 

Blood is crimson, and dark to see; 

I looked out on Saint Magnus bay. 

And I saw a falcon that struck her prey; 

A gobbet of Hesh in her beak she bore. 

And talons and singles are dripping with 

gore; 
Let him that asks after them look on his 

hand. 
And if there is blood on 't, he 's one of 

their band. 

CLAUD HALCRO 

Mother doubtful, Mother dread, 
Dweller of the Fitful-head, 
Well thou know'st it is thy task 
To tell what Beauty will not ask; 
Then steep thy words in wine and milk, 
And weave a doom of gold and silk; 
For we would know, shall Brenda prove 
In love, and happy in her love ? 

NOUNA 

Untouched by love, the maiden's breast 
Is like the snow on Rona's crest, 



High seated in the middle sky, 
In bright and barren purity ; 
But by the sunbeam gently kissed. 
Scarce by the gazing eye 't is missed. 
Ere, down the lonely valley stealing. 
Fresh grass and growth its course reveal- 
ing, 
It cheers the flock, revives the flower, 
And decks some happy shepherd's bower. 



MAGNUS TROIL 



Mother, speak, and do not tarry. 
Here 's a maiden fain would marry. 
Shall she marry, ay or not ? 
If she marry, what 's her lot ? 



Untouched by love, the maiden's breast 
Is like the snow on Rona's crest; 
So pure, so free from earthly dye. 
It seems, whilst leaning on the sky. 
Part of the heaven to which 't is nigh ; 
But passion, like the wild March rain. 
May soil the wreath with many a stain. 
We gaze — the lovely vision 's gone : 
A torrent fills the bed of stone. 
That, hurrying to destruction's shock. 
Leaps headlong from the lofty rock. 



VII 

THE fishermen's SONG 

From Chapter xxii. ' While they were yet 
within hearing of the shore, they chanted an 
ancient Norse ditty, appropriate to the occa- 
sion, of which Cland llalcro liad executed the 
following literal translation : ' — 

Farewell, merry maidens, to song and to 

laugh. 
For the bravo lads of Westra are bound to 

the Haaf; 
And we must have labor, and hunger, and 

pain, 
Ere we dance with the maids of Dunross- 

ness again. 

For now, in our trim boats of Noroway deal, 
Wo nnist dance on the waves, with the 

p()riu)ise and seal; 
The breeze it shall pipe, so it pipe not too 

high, 
And the gull be our songstress whene'er 

she flits by. 



464 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Sing on, my brave bird, while we follow, 

like thee, 
By bank, shoal, and quicksand, the swarms 

of the sea; 
And when twenty-score fishes are straining 

our line, 
Sing louder, brave bird, for their spoils 

shall be thine. 

We '11 sing while we bait, and we '11 sing 

when we haul, 
For the deeps of the Haaf have enough 

for us all; 
There is torsk for the gentle, and skate for 

the carle. 
And there 's wealth for bold Magnus, the 

son of the earl. 

Huzza ! my brave comrades, give way for 
the Haaf, 

We shall sooner come back to the dance 
and the laugh; 

For life without mirth is a lamp without oil ; 

Then, mirth and long life to the bold Mag- 
nus Troil ! 



VIII 

CLEVELAND'S SONGS 

Love wakes and weeps 

While Beauty sleeps: 
O, for Music's softest numbers, 

To prompt a theme 

For Beauty's dream, 
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers ! 

Through groves of palm 

Sigh gales of balm, 
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling; 

While through the gloom 

Comes soft perfume. 
The distaiit beds of flowers revealing. 

O wake and live ! 

No dream can give 
A shadowed bliss, the real excelling; 

No longer sleep, 

From lattice peep, 
And list the tale that Love is telling. 



Farewell ! farewell ! the voice you hear 
Has left its last soft tone with you, — 



Its next must join the seaward cheer, 
And shout among the shouting crew. 

The accents which I scarce could form 
Beneath your frown's controlling check 

Must give the word, above the storm, 
To cut the mast and clear the wreck. 

The timid eye I dared not raise, — 

The hand, that shook when pressed to 
thine, 

Must point the guns upon the chase — 
Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. 

To all I love, or hope, or fear, — 
Honor or own, a long adieu ! 

To all that life has soft and dear. 
Farewell ! save memory of you ! 



IX 

HALCRO'S VERSES 
From Chapter xsdii. 

And you shall deal the funeral dole; 

Ay, deal it, mother mine. 
To weary body and to heavy soul. 

The white bread and the wine. 

And you shall deal my horses of pride; 

Ay, deal them, mother mine; 
And you shall deal my lauds so wide. 

And deal my castles nine; 

But deal not vengeance for the deed. 

And deal not for the crime; 
The body to its place, and the soul to Hea- 
ven's grace. 

And the rest in God's own time. 



Saint Magnus control thee, that martyr of 

treason ; 
Saint Bonan rebuke thee, with rhyme and 

with reason; 
By the mass of Saint Martin, the might of 

Saint Mary, 
Be thou gone, or thy weird shall be worse 

if thou tarry ! 
If of good, go hence and hallow thee; 
If of ill, let the earth swallow thee ; 
If thou 'rt of air, let the gray mist fold thee ; 



VERSES FROM THE PIRATE 



465 



If of earth, let the swart mine hold thee; 

If a Pixie, seek thy ring; 

If a Nixie, seek thy spring; 

If on middle earth thou 'st been 

Slave of sorrow, shame, and sin, 

Hast ate the bread of toil and strife. 

And dree'd the lot which men call life; 

Begone to thy stone ! for thy coffin is scant 

of thee, 
The worm, thy play-fellow, wails for the 

want of thee: 
Hence, houseless ghost ! let the earth hide 

thee, 
Till Michael shall blow the blast, see that 

there thou bide thee ! 
Phantom, fly hence ! take the Cross for a 

token, 
Hence pass till Hallowmass ! — my spell is 

spoken. 



Where corpse-light 

Dances bright, 

Be it by day or night. 

Be it by light or dark. 

There shall corpse lie stiff and stark. 



Mensef ul maiden ne'er should rise. 
Till the first beam tinge the skies; 
Silk-fringed eyelids still should close, 
Till the sun has kissed the rose ; 
Maiden's foot we should not view, 
Marked with tiny print on dew. 
Till the opening flowerets spread 
Carpet meet for beauty's tread. 



norna's incantations 

From Chapter xxv. 

Champion, famed for warlike toil, 
Art tliou silent, Ribolt Troil ? 
Sand, and dust, and pebbly stones, 
Are leaving bare thy giant bones. 
Who dared touch the wild bear's skin 
Ye slumbered on, while life was in ? 
A woman now, or balx^ may come 
And cast the covering from thy tomb. 

Yet be not wrathful, Chief, nor blight 
Mine eyes or ears with sound or sight I 



I come not with unhallowed tread. 

To wake the slumbers of the dead, 

Or lay thy giant relics bare; 

But what I seek thou well canst spare. 

Be it to my hand allowed 

To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud; 

Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough 

To shield thy bones from weather rough. 

See, I draw my magic knife: 

Never while thou wert in life 

Laidst thou still for sloth or fear. 

When point and edge were glittering near: 

See, the cerements now I sever: 

Waken now, or sleep for ever ! 

Thou wilt not wake: the deed is done ! 

The prize I sought is fairly won. 

Thanks, Ribolt, thanks, — for this the 

sea 
Shall smooth its ruffled crest for thee, 
And while afar its billows foam, 
Subside to peace near Ribolt's tomb. 
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks — for this the might 
Of wild winds raging at their height, 
When to thy place of slumber nigh, 
Shall soften to a lullaby. 

She, the dame of doubt and dread, 
Noma of the Fitful-head, 
Mighty in her own despite, 
Miserable in her might; 
In despair and frenzy great, 
In her greatness desolate; 
Wisest, wickedest who lives. 
Well can keep the word she gives. 



XI 



THE SAME, AT THE MEETING WITH MINNA 

From Chapter xxviii. 

Thou so needful, yet so dread, 
Witli cloudy crest, and wing of red; 
'I'hou, without whose gonial breath 
The North would sleep the sleep of death; 
Who deign'st to warm the cottage hearth, 
Yet luirls }>rou(l palaces to earth; 
Uriglitest, keenest of the Powers, 
Which form and rule this world of ours, 
With my rhyme of Runic, I 
Thank thee for thy agency. 



466 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Old Reimkeunar, to thy art 
Mother Hertha sends her part; 
She, whose gracious bounty gives 
Needful food for all that lives. 
From the deep mine of the North, 
Came the mystic metal forth. 
Doomed amidst disjointed stones. 
Long to cere a champion's bones, 
Disinhumed my charms to aid : 
Mother earth, my thanks are paid. 



Girdle of our islands dear, 
Element of Water, hear ! 
Thou whose power can overwhelm 
Broken mounds and ruined realm 

On the lowly Belgian strand; 
All thy fiercest rage can never 
Of our soil a furlong sever 

From our rock-defended land; 
Play then gently thou thy part, 
To assist old Noma's art. 



Elements, each other greeting. 

Gifts and powers attend your meeting ! 



Thou, that over billows dark 
Safely send'st the fisher's bark: 
Giving him a path and motion 
Through the wilderness of ocean; 
Thou, that when the billows brave ye. 
O'er the shelves canst drive the nav}^: 
Didst thou chafe as one neglected, 
While thy brethren were respected ? 
To appease thee, see, I tear 
This full grasp of grizzled hair; 
Oft thy breath hath through it sung. 
Softening to my magic tongue; 
Now, 't is thine to bid it fly 
Through the wide expanse of sky, 
'Mid the countless swarms to sail 
Of wild-fowl wheeling on thy gale; 
Take thy portion and rejoice: 
Spirit, thou hast heard my voice ! 



She who sits by haunted well, . 
Is subject to the Nixie's spell; 
She who walks on lonely beach, 



To the Mermaid's charmed speech; 
She who walks round ring of green. 
Offends the peevish Fairy Queen ; 
And she who takes rest in the Dwarfie's 

cave, 
A weary weird of woe shall have. 

By ring, by spring, by cave, by shore, 
Minna Troil has braved all this and more; 
And yet hath the root of her sorrow and 

ill 
A source that 's more deep and more mys- 
tical still. 
Thou art within a demon's hold. 
More wise than Heims, more strong than 

TroUd; 
No siren sings so sweet as he: 
No fay springs lighter on the lea; 
No elfin power hath half the art 
To soothe, to move, to wring the heart: 
Life-blood from the cheek to drain, 
Drench the eye, and dry the vein. 
Maiden, ere we farther go. 
Dost thou note me, ay or no ? 

MIKNA 

I mark thee, my mother, both word, look, 

and sign; 
Speak on with thy riddle — to read it be 

mine. 



Mark me ! for the word I speak 

Shall bring the color to thy cheek. 

This leaden heart, so light of cost, 

The symbol of a treasure lost. 

Thou shalt wear in hope and in peace. 

That the cause of your sickness and sorrov 

may cease, 
When crimson foot meets crimson hand 
In the Martyrs' Aisle, and in Orkney land. 
Be patient, be patient, for Patience hath — 

power Hi 

To ward us in danger, like mantle in" 

shower; 
A fairy gift you best may hold 
In a chain of fairy gold; 
The chain and the gift are each a trud 

token. 
That not without warrant old Noma hat 

spoken ; 
But thy nearest and dearest must never^ 

behold them, 
Till time shall accomplish the truths I - 

have told them. 



atfl 

I 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE 



467 



XII 

BRYCE SNAILSFOOT'S ADVERTISEMENT 

From Chapter xxxii. 

Poor sinners whom the snake deceives, 
Are fain to cover them with leaves. 
Zetland hath no leaves, 't is true, 
Because that trees are none, or few; 
But we have flax and taits of woo', 
For linen cloth, and wadmaal blue ; 
And we have many of foreign knacks 
Of finer waft than woo* or flax. 
Ye gallanty Lambmas lads appear, 
And br'ng your Lambmas sisters here, 
Bryce fenailsfoot spares not cost or care, 
To pleasure every gentle pair. 



ON ETTRICK FORESTS MOUN- 
TAINS DUN 

Written in 1822 after a week's shooting and 
fishing in which Scott had been engaged with 
some friends. 

On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun 

'T is blithe to hear the sportsman's gun, 

And seek the heath-frequenting brood 

Far through the noonday solitude; 

By many a cairn and trenched mound 

Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound. 

And springs where gray-haired shepherds 

tell 
That still the fairies love to dwell. 

Along the silver streams of Tweed 
'T is blithe the mimic fly to lead. 
When to the hook the salmon springs. 
And the line whistles through the rings; 
The boiling eddy see him try. 
Then dashing from the current high, 
Till watchful eye and cautious hand 
Have led his wasted strength to land. 

'Tis blithe along the midnight tide 
With stalwart arm the boat to guide; 
On high the dazzling blaze to rear. 
And heedful plunge the barbed spear; 
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright, 
Fling on the stream tlieir ruddy light. 
And from the bank our band appears 
Like Genii armed with flcry spears. 



'T is blithe at eve to tell the tale 
How we succeed and how we fail. 
Whether at Alwyn's lordly meal. 
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel; 
While the gay tapers cheerly shine. 
Bickers the fire and flows the wine — 
Days free from thought and nights from 

care. 
My blessing on the Forest fair. 



THE MAID OF ISLA 

Air— ' The Maid of Ma ' 

Written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish 
Melodies^ and published in 1822. 

O Maid of Isla, from the cliff 

That looks on troubled wave and sky, 
Dost thou not see yon little skiff 

Contend with ocean gallantly ? 
Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge, 

And steeped her leeward deck in foam, 
Why does she war unequal urge ? — 

O Isla's maid, she seeks her home. 

O Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark, 

Her white wing gleams through mist 
and spray 
Against the storm-cloud lowering dark, 

As to the rock she wheels away ; — 
Where clouds are dark and billows rave, 

Why to the shelter should she come 
Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave ? — 

O maid of Isla, 't is her home ! 

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff, 

Thou 'rt adverse to the suit I bring, 
And cold as is yon wintry cliff 

Where seabirds close their wearied wing. 
Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave. 

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come; 
For in thy love or in his grave 

Must Allan Vourich find his home. 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE 

Also published iu Scottish Melodies in 1822. 

Enchantuk88, farewell, wlioso oft baa de- 
coyeti mo 
At the close of the evening through 
woodbinds to roam, 



468 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Where the forester lated with wonder es- 
pied me 
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting 
for home. 
Farewell, and take with thee thy num- 
bers wild speaking 
The language alternate of rapture and 
woe: 
O ! none but some lover whose heart-strings 
are breaking 
The pang that I feel at our parting can 
know ! 

Each joy thou couldst double, and when 
there came sorrow 
Or pale disappointment to darken my 
way, 
What voice was like thine, that could sing 
of to-morrow 
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of 
to-day ! 
But when friends drop around us in life's 
weary waning, 
The grief. Queen of Numbers, thou canst 
not assuage; 
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet 
remaining, 
The languor of pain and the chillness of 



'T was thou that once taught me in accents 
bewailing 
To sing how a warrior lay stretched on 
the plain. 
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid un- 
availing. 
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; 
As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of 
wild Numbers, 
To a bard when the reign of his fancy is 
o'er. 
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy 
slumbers — 
Farewell, then. Enchantress; — I meet 
thee no more. 



NIGEL'S INITIATION AT WHITE- 
FRIARS 

From Chapter xvii. of The Fortunes of Nigel, 
published in 1822. 

Your suppliant, by name 
Nigel Grahame, 



In fear of mishap 
From a shoulder-tap; 
And dreading a claw 
From the talons of law, 

That are sharper than briars; 
His freedom to sue 
And rescue by you : 
Through weapon and wit, 
From warrant and writ, 
From bailiff's hand. 
From tipstaff's wand. 

Is come hither to Whitefriars. 



By spigot and barrel, 

By bilboe and buff; 
Thou art sworn to the quarrel 

Of the blades of the Huff. 
For Whitefriars and its claims 

To be champion or martyr, 
And to fight for its dames 

Like a Knight of the Garter. 



From the touch of the tip. 

From the blight of the warrant, 
From the watchmen who skip 

On the Harman Beck's errand. 
From the bailiff's cramp speech, 

That makes man a thrall, 
I charm thee from each. 

And I charm thee from all. 
Thy freedom 's complete 

As a blade of the Huff, 
To be cheated and cheat. 

To be cuffed and to cuff; 
To stride, swear, and swagger, 
To drink till you stagger, 

To stare and to stab. 
And to brandish your dagger 

In the cause of your drab; 
To walk wool- ward in winter, 

Drink brandy, and smoke, 
And go fresco in summer 

For want of a cloak; 
To eke out your living 

By the wag of your elbow, 
By fulham and gourd, 

And by baring of bilboe; 
To live by your shifts, 

And to swear by your honor 
Are the freedom and gifts 

Of which I am the donor. 



i 



CARLE, NOW THE KING 'S COME 



469 



CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME 



I 



BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD 
SPRING 



This imitation of an old Jacobite ditty was 
written on the appearance, in the Frith of 
Forth, of the fleet which conveyed his Majesty 
King Georg-e the Fourth to Scotland, in August, 
1822, and was published as a broadside. The 
reader will recall the enthusiasm of Scott over 
this royal visit as set forth graphically by 
Lockhart in Chapter Ivi. of the Life. 

PART FIRST 

The news has flown frae mouth to mouth, 
The North for ance has banged the South; 
The deil a Scotsman 's die o' drouth, 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 

CHORUS 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 
Thou shalt dance, and I will sing. 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 

Auld England held him lang and fast; 
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast; 
But Scotland's turn is come at last: 

Carle, now the King 's come: 

Auld Reekie, in her rokelay gray, 
Thought never to have seen the day; 
He 's been a weary time away — 

But, Carle, now the King 's come ! 

She 's skirling frae the Castle-hill; 
The Carline's voice is grown sae shrill, 
Ye '11 hear her at the Canon-mill : 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

* Up, bairns ! ' she cries, * baith grit and 

sma*. 
And busk ye for the weapon-shaw I 
Stand by me, and we '11 bang them a' — 
Carle, now the King 's come I 

* Come from Newbattle's ancient spires, 
Bauld Lothian, with your knights and 

squires, 
And match the mettle of your sires: 

Carle, now the King 's come I 

* You 're welcome hame, my Montagu ! 
Bring in your hand the young Rucclouoh; 



I 'm missing some that I may rue : 

Carle, now the King 's come; 

* Come, Haddington, the kind and gay. 
You 've graced my causeway mouy a 

day; 
I '11 weep the cause if you should stay: 
Carle, now the King 's come I 

* Come, premier Duke, and carry doun 
Frae yonder craig his ancient croun ; 
It 's had a lang sleep and a soun' : 

But, Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, 
Bring down your clansmen like a cloud ; 
Come, Morton, show the Douglas' blood: 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath ; 
Come, Hopetoun, feared on fields of death; 
Come, Clerk, and give your bugle breath; 

Carle, now the King/s come ! 

* Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids; 
Come, Rosebery, from Dalmeny shades; 
Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids; 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* Come, stately Niddrie, auld and true, 
Girt with the sword that Minden knew; 
We have o'er few such lairds as you: 

Carle, now the King 's come J 

* King Arthur 's grown a common crier, 
He 's heard in Fife and far Cantire : 

" Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire ! " 

Carle, now the King 's come I * 

* Saint Abb roars out, ** I see him pass, 
Between Tantallon and the Bass I ' 
Calton, get out your keeking-glass, 

Carle, now the King *s come ! ' 

The Carlino stopped; and, sure I am, 
For very glee liad ta'on a dwani, 
But Oman holpod her to a dram. 

Cogie, now the King 's como I 



Cogio, now the King *8 come I 
Cogio, now the King 's como I 
I 'so bo fou', and yo \s be loom, 
Cogio, now the King 's oome I 



47 o 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



PART SECOND 

A Hawick gill of mountain dew 
Heised up Auld Reekie's heart, I trow, 
It minded her of Waterloo: 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

Again I heard her summons swell, 
For, sic a dirdum and a yell, 
It drowned Saint Giles's jowing bell: 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 

' My trusty Provost, tried and tight. 
Stand forward for the Good Town's right, 
There 's waur than you been made a knight : 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* My reverend Clergy, look ye say 
The best of thanksgivings ye ha'e. 
And warstle for a sunny day — 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* My Doctors, look that you agree. 
Cure a' the town without a fee; 
My Lawyers, dinna pike a plea: 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* Come forth each sturdy Burgher's bairn. 
That dints on wood or clanks on airn, 
That fires the o'en, or winds the pirn — 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* Come forward with the Blanket Blue, 
Your sires were loyal men and true, 
As Scotland's foemen oft might rue: 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* Scots downa loup, and rin and rave, 
We 're steady folks and something grave. 
We '11 keep the causeway firm and brave : 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

' Sir Thomas, thunder from your rock. 
Till Pentland dinnles wi' the shock. 
And lace wi' fire my snood o' smoke: 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 

' Melville, bring out your bands of blue, 
A' Louden lads, baith stout and true, 
With Elcho, Hope, and Cockburn, too: 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* And you, who on yon bluidy braes 
Compelled the vanquished Despot's praise, 
Rank out, rank out, my gallant Greys: 

t'arle, now the King 's come ! 



^ Cock of the North, my Huntly bra', 
Where are you with the Forty-twa ? 
Ah ! waes my heart that ye 're awa': 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* But yonder come my canty Celts, 
With durk and pistols at their belts, 
Thank God, we 've still some plaids and 

kilts: 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* Lord, how the pibrochs groan and yell ! 
Macdonell 's ta'en the field himsell, 
Macleod comes branking o'er the fell: 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* Bend up your bow each Archer spark, 
For you 're to guard him light and dark; 
Faith, lads, for ance ye 've hit the mark: 

Carle, now the Eang 's come ! 

* Young Errol, take the sword of state, 
The Sceptre, Pane-Morarchate ; 
Knight Mareschal, see ye clear the gate : 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* Kind cummer, Leith, ye 've been mis- 

set. 
But dinna be upon the fret: 
Ye 'se hae the handsel of him yet, 

Carle, now the King's come! 

' My daughters, come with een sae blue, 
Your garlands weave, your blossoms strew; 
He ne'er saw fairer flowers than you: 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* What shall we do for the propine: 
We used to offer something fine. 
But ne'er a groat 's in pouch of mine : 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

' Deil care — for that I 'se never start. 
We '11 welcome him with Highland heart; 
Whate'er we have he 's get a part: 

Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* I '11 show him mason- work this day : 
Nane of your bricks of Babel clay. 

But towers shall stand till Time 's away: 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 

* I '11 show him wit, I '11 show him lair. 
And gallant lads and lasses fair. 

And what wad kind heart wish for mair ? 
Carle, now the King 's come ! 



THE BANNATYNE CLUB 



471 



* Step out, Sir John, of projects rife, 
Come win the thanks of an auld wife, 
And bring him health and length of life: 
Carle, now the King 's come ! ' 



THE BANNATYNE CLUB 

This club of bibliophiles was founded by Sir 
Walter, who was its first president and wrote 
these verses for the first anniversary dinner, 
March, 1823. 

Assist me, ye friends of Old Books and 
Old Wine, 

To sing in the praises of sage Banna- 
tyne. 

Who left such a treasure of old Scottish 
lore 

As enables each age to print one volume 
more. 
One volume more, my friends, one 

volume more. 
We '11 ransack old Banny for one vol- 
ume more. 

And first, Allan Ramsay, was eager to 
glean 

From Bannatyne's Hortus his bright Ever- 
green ; 

Two light little volumes — intended for 
four — 

Still leave us the task to print one volume 
more. 

One volume more, etc. 

His ways were not ours, for he cared not 

a pin 
How much he left out or how much he put 

in; 
The truth of the reading he thought was a 

bore. 
So this accurate age calls for one volume 

more. 

One volume more, etc. 

Correct and sagacious, then came my Lord 

Hailes, 
And weighed every letter in critical scales, 
But left out some brief words which the 

prudish ablior, 
And castrated Hanny in one volume more. 
One volume more, my friends, one 

volume more; 
We'll restore 15anny's manhood in one 

volume more. 



John Pinkerton next, and I 'm truly con- 
cerned 

I can't call that worthy so candid as 
learned; 

He railed at the plaid and blasphemed the 
claymore. 

And set Scots by the ears in his one volume 
more. 
One volume more, my friends, one 

volume more, 
Celt and Goth shall be pleased with 
one volume more. 

As bitter as gall and as sharp as a razor, 
And feeding on herbs as a Nebuchadnezzar; 
His diet too acid, his temper too sour, 
Little Ritson came out with his two volumes 
more. 
But one volume, my friends, one vol- 
ume more. 
We '11 dine on roast-beef and print one 
volume more. 

The stout Gothic yeditur, next on the roll, 
With his beard like a brush and as black 

as a coal; 
And honest Greysteel that was true to the 

core. 
Lent their hearts and their hands each to 

one volume more. 

One volume more, etc. 

Since by these single champions what won- 
ders were done, 

What may not be achieved by our Thirty 
and One ? 

Law, Gospel, and Commerce, we count in 
our corps. 

And the Trade and the Press join for one 
volume more. 

One volume more, etc. 

Ancient libels and contniband books, I 
assure ye. 

We '11 print as secure from Exchequer or 
Jury ; 

Then hear your Committee and let them 
count o'er 

The Chiols tlioy intend in their three vol- 
umes more. 

Three volumes more, etc. 

They Ml produce you King Jamie, the sa- 

piont and Sext, 
And the Rob of Dumblano and her Bishops 

come next; 



472 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



One tome miscellaneous they '11 add to 

your store, 
Resolving next year to print four volumes 
more. 
Four volumes more, my friends, four 

volumes more; 
Pay down your subscriptions for four 
volumes more. 



COUNTY GUY 

From Chapter iv. of Quentin Burward^ pub- 
lished in 1823. 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 

The sun has left the lea. 
The orange flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark his lay who thrilled all day 

Sits hushed his partner nigh; 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour. 

But where is County Guy ? 

The village maid steals through the shade, 

Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
To beauty shy by lattice high. 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 
The star of Love, all stars above, 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky; 
And high and low the influence know — 

But where is County Guy ? 



EPILOGUE 

to the drama founded on saint 
ronan's well 

This drama appeared in 1824, promptly after 
the publication of the novel. Lockhart re- 
marks of the epilogue, * though it caused great 
merriment at the time in Edinburgh, the allu- 
sions are so exclusively local and temporary, 
that I fear no commentary could ever make it 
intelligible elsewhere.' 

[Enter Meg Dodds, encircled by a crowd of un- 
ruly boys, whom a town*s-officer is driving offJ\ 

That 's right, friend — drive the gaitlings 

back. 
And lend yon muckle ane a whack; 
Your Embro' bairns are grown a pack, 

Sae proud and saucy, 
They scarce will let an auld wife walk 

Upon your causey. 



I Ve seen the day they would been scaured 
Wi' the Tolbooth or wi' the Guard, 
Or maybe wud hae some regard 

For Jamie Laing — 
The Water-hole was right weel wared 

On sic a gang. 

But whar 's the gude Tolbooth gane now ? 
Whar 's the auld Claught, wi' red and 

blue? 
Whar's Jamie Laing? and whar's John 
Doo? 

And whar 's the Weigh-house ? 
Deil hae't I see but what is new, 
Except the Playhouse ! 

Yoursells are changed frae head io heel, 
There 's some that gar the causeway 

reel 
With clashing hufe and rattling wheel. 

And horses canterin', 
Wha's fathers' daundered hame as weel 

Wi' lass and lantern. 

Mysell being in the public line, 

I look for howfs I kenned lang syne, 

Whar gentles used to drink gude wine 

And eat cheap dinners; 
But deil a soul gangs there to dine 

Of saints or sinners I 

Fortune's and Hunter's gane, alas ! 
And Bayle's is lost in empty space; 
And now if folk would splice a brace 

Or crack a bottle, 
They gang to a new-fangled place 

They ca' a Hottle. 

The deevil hottle them for Meg ! 
They are sae greedy and sae gleg, 
That if ye 're served but wi' an egg-^ 

And that 's puir picking — 
In comes a chiel and makes a leg, 

And charges chicken ! 

* And wha may ye be,' gin ye speer, 

* That brings your auld - warld clavers 

here ? ' 
Troth, if there 's onybody near 

That kens the roads, 
I '11 baud ye Burgundy to beer 

He kens Meg Dodds. 

I came a piece frae west o' Currie; 
And, since I see you 're in a hurry, 



VERSES FROM REDGAUNTLET 



473 



Your patience I '11 nae langer worry, 

But be sae crouse 
As speak a word for ane Will Murray 

That keeps this house. 

Plays are auld-fashioned things in truth, 
And ye 've seen wonders mair uncouth; 
Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth 

Or want of dramock, 
Although they speak but wi' their mouth, 

Not with their stamock. 

But ye take care of a' folk's pantry; 
And surely to hae stooden sentry 
Ower this big house — that 's far frae rent- 
free — 

For a lone sister, 
Is claims as gude 's to be a ventri — 
How'st ca'd — loquister. 

Weel, sirs, gude'en, and have a care 
The bairns mak fun o'Meg nae mair; 
For gin they do, she tells you fair 

And without failzie, 
As sure as ever ye sit there. 

She '11 tell the Bailie. 



EPILOGUE 

When Scott was collecting his stray poems 
for a definitive edition, he wrote thus to Con- 
stable, October 22, 1824 : ' I recovered tlie 
above with some difficulty. I believe it was 
never spoken, but written for some play, after- 
wards withdrawn, in which Mrs. H. Siddons 
was to have spoken it in the character of Queen 
May : ' — 

The sages — for authority, pray, look 
Seneca's morals or the copy-book — 
The sages to disparage woman's power. 
Say beauty is a fair but fading flower; — 
I cannot tell — I 've small philosophy — 
Yet if it fades it does not surely die, 
But, like the violet, when decayed in 

bloom. 
Survives through many a year in rich per- 
fume. 
Witness our theme to-night; two ages gone, 
A third wanes fast, since Mary filled tlie 

throne. 
Brief was her bloom with scarce one sunny 

day 
'Twixt Pinkie's field and fatal Fotherin- 
gay: 



But when, while Scottish hearts and blood 

you boast. 
Shall sympathy with Mary's woes be 

lost? 
O'er Mary's memory the learned quarrel. 
By Mary's grave the poet plants his laurel, 
Time's echo, old tradition, makes her 

name 
The constant burden of his faltering 

theme; 
In each old hall his gray-haired heralds 

tell 
Of Mary's picture and of Mary's cell, 
And show — my fingers tingle at the 

thought — 
The loads of tapestry which that poor 

queen wrought. 
In vain did fate bestow a double dower 
Of every ill that waits on rank and power, 
Of every ill on beauty that attends — 
False ministers, false lovers, and false 

friends. 
Spite of three wedlocks so completely 

curst. 
They rose in ill from bad to worse and 

worst. 
In spite of errors — I dare not say more. 
For Duncan Targe lays hand on his clay- 
more. 
In spite of all, however humors vary, 
There is a talisman in that word Mary, 
That unto Scottish bosoms all and some 
Is found the genuine open sesamum ! 
In history, ballad, poetry, or novel, 
It charms alike the castle and the hovel. 
Even you — forgive me — who, demure and 

shy. 
Gorge not each bait nor stir at every fly, 
Must rise to this, else in her ancient reign 
The Rose of Scotland hiis survived in viiiu. 



VERSES FROM REDGAUNTLET 



Published in 1824. 



A CATCH OF COWLEY'S ALTERED 
From Letter x. 

For all our men were very very merry, 

And all our men were drinking: 
There were two men of mine. 
Three men of tliiuoy 



474 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And three that belonged to old Sir Thorn 

o' Lyne. 
As they went to the ferry, they were very 

very merry, 
And all our men were drinking. 

Jack looked at the sun, and cried, Fire, 

fire, fire ! 
Tom stabled his keffel in Birkendale mire ; 
Jem started a calf, and hallooed for a stag ; 
Will mounted a gate-post instead of his 

nag: 
For all our men were very very merry, 

And all our men were drinking; 
There were two men of mine, 
Three of thine, 
And three that belonged to old Sir Thom 

o' Lyne. 
As they went to the ferry, they were very 

very merry, 
For all our men were drinking. 



II 



*AS LORDS THEIR LABORERS' HIRE DE- 
LAY' 

From Chapter ix. 

As lords their laborers' hire delay. 

Fate quits our toil with hopes to come. 

Which, if far short of present pay. 
Still owns a debt and names a sum. 

Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then, 
Although a distant date be given; 

Despair is treason towards man, 
And blasphemy to Heaven. 



LINES 

ADDRESSED TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE, 
THE CELEBRATED VENTRILOQUIST 

This M. Alexandre is better known now as 
M. Alexandre Vattemaire, who initiated a sys- 
tem of international literary exchanges. 

' When Monsieur Alexandre, the celebrated 
ventriloquist, was in Scotland, in 1824, he 
paid a visit to Abbotsford, where he enter- 
tained his distinguished host, and the other 
visitors, with his unrivalled imitations. Next 
morning, when he was about to depart, Sir 
Walter felt a good deal embarrassed, as to the 



sort of acknowledgment he should offer ; but 
at length, resolving that it would probably be 
most agreeable to the young foreigner to be 
paid in professional coin, if in any, he stepped 
aside for a few minutes, and, on returning, 
presented him with this epigram. The reader 
need hardly be reminded, that Sir Walter 
Scott held the office of Sheriff of the county 
of Selkirk.' — Scotch Newspaper, 1830. 

Of yore, in old England, it was not 

thought good 
To carry two visages under one hood; 
What should folk say to youf who have 

faces such plenty. 
That from under one hood, you last night 

showed us twenty ! 
Stand forth, arch-deceiver, and tell us in 

truth, 
Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in 

youth ? 
Man, woman, or child — a dog or a 

mouse ? 
Or are you, at once, each live thing in the 

house? 
Each live thing, did I ask ? each dead im- 
plement, too, 
A work-shop in your person, — saw, chisel, 

and screw ! 
Above all, are you one individual ? I know 
You must be at least Alexandre and Co. 
But I think you 're a troop, an assemblage, 

a mob. 
And that I, as the Sheriff, should take up 

the job; 
And instead of rehearsing your wonders in 

verse. 
Must read you the Eiot-Act, and bid you 

disperse. 



TO J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ. 

ON THE COMPOSITION OF MAIDA'S EPI- 
TAPH 

In October, 1824, died Maida, the most cele- 
brated of all Sir Walter's faithful dogs and 
companions, and his master had inscribed upon 
his monument the following epitaph : — 

* Maidae marmoreS dormis sub imagine Maida 
Ad januam domini ; sit tibi terra levis.' 

' Thus Englished,' says Sir Walter in a letter 
to his son Charles, ' by an eminent hand : ' — 

' Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore, 
I Sleep soundly, Maida, at your master's door.* 



TO J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ. 



475 



*The monument here mentioned,' says Lock- 
hart, was a leaping-on-stone to which the skill 
of Scott's master-mason had given the shape of 
Maida recumhent. It had stood by the gate of 
Abbotsford a year or more before the dog died.' 
The Latin was Lockhart's, the English, Sir 
Walter's, but James Ballantyne, who was an 
over zealous admirer of his great author, saw 
the inscription, and when he went back to 
Edinburgh printed in a newspaper with pride, 
the Latin verses as Sir Walter's. It happened 
that Lockhart's inscription had a false quan- 
tity januam, but Ballantyne not only did not 
discover this; his memory played him false, 
and in repeating the inscription he put jaces 
for dor mis. At once the newspaper para- 
graphist raised a laugh over ' Sir Walter's 
false quantities.' Scott, in his generous na- 
ture, refused to shield himself behind Lockhart, 
and much pother was made over the matter. 
The verses which follow savor, as Lockhart 
says, of Scott's * recent overhauling of Swift 
and Sheridan's doggrel epistles.' 

Dear John, — I some time ago wrote to 
inform his 

Fat worship of jaces, misprinted for dor- 
mis ; 

But that several Southrons assured me 
the januam 

Was a twitch to both ears of Ass Priscian's 
cranium. 

You perhaps may observe that one Lionel 
Berguer, 

In defence of our blunder appears a stout 
arguer. 

But at length I have settled, I hope, all 
these clatters. 

By a rowt in the papers, fine place for such 
matters. 

I have therefore to make it for once my 
command, sir, 

That my gudeson shall leave the whole 
thing in my hand, sir. 

And by no means accomplish what James 
says you threaten, — 

Some banter in Blackwood to claim your 
dog-Latin. 

I have various reasons of weight, on my 
word, sir. 

For pronouncing a step of this sort were 
absurd, sir. 

Firstly, erudite sir, 't was against your ad- 
vising 

I adopted the lines this monstrosity lies in; 

For you modestly hinted my English trans- 
lation 



Would become better far such a dignified 

station. 
Second, how, in God's name, would my 

bacon be saved 
By not having writ what I clearly en- 
graved ? 
On the contrary, I, on the whole, think it 

better 
To be whipped as the thief, than his lousy 

resetter. 
Thirdly, don't you perceive that I don't 

care a boddle 
Although fifty false metres were flung at 

my noddle. 
For my back is as broad and as hard as 

Benlomon's, 
And I treat as I please both the Greeks 

and the Romans; 
Whereas the said heathens might rather 

look serious 
At a kick on their drum from the scribe of 

Valerius. 
And, fourthly and lastly, it is my good 

pleasure 
To remain the sole source of that murder- 
ous measure. 
So, stet pro ratione voluntas, — be tractile, 
Invade not, I say, my own dear little 

dactyl ; 
If you do, you '11 occasion a breach in our 

intercourse. 
To-morrow will see me in town for the 

winter-course. 
But not at your door, at the usual hour, 

sir, 
My own pye-house daughter's good prog 

to devour, sir. 
Ergo, peace ! — on your duty your squeam- 

ishness throttle. 
And we '11 soothe Priscian's spleen with a 

canny third bottle. 
A fig for all dactyls, a i]^ for all spondees, 
A fig for all dunces and l)oniinie Grundys; 
A fig for dry tlirapples, south, north, east, 

and west, sir, 
Spoats and raxes ere five for a famishing 

guest, sir; 
And as Fatsnian and I have some topics for 

luiver, ho '11 
Bo invited, I hope, to meet mo and Dame 

Poveril, 
Upon whom, to say nothing of Oury and 

Anno, you a 
Dog shall bo deemed if you fasten your 

Jatiua, 



^76 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



SONGS FROM THE BETROTHED 

Published in 1825. 

I 

* SOLDIER, WAKE ! ' 

From Chapter xix. 

Soldier, wake ! the day is peeping, 
Honor ne'er was won in sleeping; 
Never when the sunbeams still 
Lay unreflected on the hill: 
'T is when they are glinted back 
From axe and armor, spear and jack, 
That they promise future story 
Many a page of deathless glory. 
Shields that are the foeman's terror. 
Ever are the morning's mirror. 

Arm and up ! the morning beam 
Hath called the rustic to his team, 
Hath called the falc'ner to the lake, 
Hath called the huntsman to the brake; 
The early student ponders o'er 
His dusty tomes of ancient lore. 
Soldier, wake ! thy harvest, fame; 
Thy study, conquest; war, thy game. 
Shield, that would be foeman's terror, 
Still should gleam the morning's mirror. 

Poor hire repays the rustic's pain; 
More paltry still the sportsman's gain: 
Vainest of all, the student's theme 
Ends in some metaphysic dream : 
Yet each is up, and each has toiled, 
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled: 
And each is eagerer in his aim 
Than he who barters life for fame. 
Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror ! 
Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror. 



II 



woman's faith 
From Chapter xx. 

Woman's faith, and woman's trust: 
Write the characters in dust, 
Stamp them on the running stream, 
Print them on the moon's pale beam, 
And each evanescent letter 
Shall be clearer, firmer, better, 



And more permanent, I ween. 
Than the things those letters mean. 

I have strained the spider's thread 

'Gainst the promise of a maid; 

I have weighed a grain of sand 

'Gainst her plight of heart and hand; 

I told my true love of the token. 

How her faith proved light, and her word 

was broken: 
Again her word and truth she plight, 
And I believed them again ere night. 



Ill 

' I asked of my harp ' 

From Chapter xxxi. * A lay, of which we 
can offer only a few fragments, literally trans- 
lated from the ancient language in which they 
were chanted, premising that they are in that 
excm'sive symbolical style of poetry, which 
Taliessin, Llewarch Hen, and other bards, had 
derived perhaps from the time of the Druids.' 

I ASKED of my harp, *Who hath injured 

thy chords ? ' 
And she replied, * The crooked finger, which 

I mocked in my tune.' 
A blade of silver may be bended — a blade 

of steel abideth: 
Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance en- 

dureth. 

The sweet taste of mead passeth from the 

lips. 
But they are long corroded by the juice of 

wormwood ; 
The lamb is brought to the shambles, but 

the wolf rangeth the mountain; 
Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance en- 

dureth. 

I asked the red-hot iron, when it glim- 
mered on the anvil, 

* Wherefore glowest thou longer than the 
fire-brand ? ' 

*T was born in the dark mine, and the 
brand in the pleasant greenwood.' 

Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance en- 
dureth. 

I asked the green oak of the assembly, 
wherefore its boughs were dry and 
seared like the horns of the stag ? 



VERSES FROM THE TALISMAN 



477 



And it showed me that a small worm had 
gnawed its roots. 

The boy who remembered the scourge, un- 
did the wicket of the castle at mid- 
night. 

Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance en- 
duretho 

Lightning destroyeth temples, though their 

spires pierce the clouds; 
Storms destroy armadas, though their sails 

intercept the gale. 
He that is in his glory falleth, and that by 

a contemptible enemy. 
Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance en- 

duretho 



IV 

< WIDOWED WIFE AND WEDDED MAID ' 

From the last Chaptero 

Widowed wife and wedded maid. 
Betrothed, betrayer, and betrayed. 
All is done that has been said; 
Vanda's wrong hath been y-wroken: 
Take her pardon by this token. 



VERSES FROM THE TALISMAN 

Published in 1825. 

I 

*DARK AHRIMAN, WHOM IRAK STILL' 

From Chapter iii. 

Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still 
Holds origin of woe and ill ! 

When, bending at thy shrine, 
We view the world witli troubled eye, 
Where see we, 'neath the extended sky. 

An empire matching thine ! 

If the Benigner Power can yield 
A fountain in the desert fichl, 

Where weary pilgrims drink; 
Thine are the waves that lash the rock. 
Thine the tornado's deadly shock. 

Where countless navies sink ! 

Or if He bid the soil dispense 
Balsams to cheer the sinking sense, 
How few can they deliver 



From lingering pains, or pang intense, 
Red Fever, spotted Pestilence, 
The arrows of thy quiver ! 

Chief in Man's bosom sits thy sway, 
And frequent, while in words we pray 

Before another throne, 
Whate'er of specious form be there, 
The secret meaning of the prayer 

Is, Ahriman, thine own. 

Say, hast thou feeling, sense, and form, 
Thunder thy voice, thy garments storm, 

As Eastern Magi say; 
With sentient soul of hate and wrath, 
And wings to sweep thy deadly path, 

And fangs to tear thy prey ? 

Or art thou mixed in Nature's source, 
An ever-operating force. 

Converting good to ill; 
An evil principle innate, 
Contending with our better fate, 

And oh ! victorious still ? 

Howe'er it be, dispute is vain. 

On all without thou hold'st thy reign, 

Nor less on all within; 
Each mortal passion's fierce career, 
Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear. 

Thou goadest into sin. 

Whene'er a sunny gleam appears. 
To brighten up our vale of tears. 

Thou art not distant far; 
Mid such brief solace of our lives. 
Thou whett'st our very banquet-knives 

To tools of death and war. 

Thus, from the moment of our birth. 
Long as we linger on the earth, 

Thou rul'st the fate of men; 
Thine are the pangs of life's last hour, 
And — who dare answer ? — is thy power, 

Dark Spirit I ended Then ? 



*WHAT BRAVE CHIEF SHALL UKAD THE 
FORCES ' 

From Chapter xi. * A hrarini; n\ as at Irni^fth 
])nHnirod for tho poot pn^firnd, who sun^r, in 
liij;h German, atanzjuj which may be thus trang* 
lilted:' — 



478 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



What brave chief shall head the forces, 
Where the red-cross legions gather ? 

Best of horsemen, best of horses, 
Highest head and fairest feather. 

Ask not Austria why, 'midst princes, 
Still her banner rises highest; 

Ask as well the strong-wing'd eagle 
Why to heaven he soars the nighesto 



III 



THE BLOODY VEST 

From Chapter xxvi. ' The song of Blondel 
was, of course, in the Normau language ; but 
the verses which follow express its meaning 
and its manner.' 

'T WAS near the fair city of Benevent, 
When the sun was setting on bough and 

bent. 
And knights were preparing in bower and 

tent. 
On the eve of the Baptist's tournament; 
When in Lincoln green a stripling gent. 
Well seeming a page by a princess sent. 
Wandered the camp, and, still as he went, 
Inquired for the Englishman, Thomas h 

Kent. 

Far hath he fared, and farther must fare, 
Till he finds his pavilion nor stately nor 

rare, — 
Little save iron and steel was there: 
And, as lacking the coin to pay armorer's 

care. 
With his sinewy arms to the shoulders 

bare. 
The good knight with hammer and file did 

repair 
The mail that to-morrow must see him 

wear. 
For the honor of Saint John and his lady 

fair. 

* Thus speaks my lady,' the page said 

he, 
And the knight bent lowly both head and 

knee: 
*She is Benevent's Princess so high in 

degree. 
And thou art as lowly as knight may well 

be — 
He that would climb so lofty a tree, 



Or spring such a gulf as divides her from 

thee. 
Must dare some high deed, by which all 

men may see 
His ambition is backed by his hie chivalrie. 



* Therefore thus speaks my lady,' the fair 

page he said, 
And the knight lowly louted with hand and 
with head: 

* Fling aside the good armor in which thou 

art clad. 
And don thou this weed of her night-gear 

instead. 
For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread : 
And charge thus attired, in the tournament 

dread, 
And fight, as thy wont is, where most blood 

is shed, 
And bring honor away, or remain with thi 



dead.' 



I 



Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in 
his breast. 

The knight the weed hath taken, and re- 
verently hath kissed: 

* Now blessed be the moment, the messenger 
be blest ! 

Much honored do I hold me in my lady's 
high behest; 

And say unto my lady, in this dear night- 
weed dressed. 

To the best armed champion I will not veil 
my crest; 

But if I live and bear me well, 't is her turn 
to take the test.' 

Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of 
the Lay of the Bloody Vest. j 

FYTTE SECOND ^* 

The Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant 

feats: 
There was winning of honor, and losing of 

seats : 
There was hewing with falchions, and 

splintering of staves. 
The victors won glory, the vanquished won 

grave So 
Oh, many a knight there fought bravely 

and well, 
Yet one was accounted his peers to excel, 
And 't was he whose sole armor on body and 

breast 
Seemed the weed of a damsel when bound 

for her rest. 



VERSES FROM THE TALISMAN 



479 



There were some dealt him wounds^ that 

were bloody and sore, 
But others respected his plight, and fore- 

boreo 

* It is some oath of honor,' they said, * and 

I trow, 
^T were unknightly to slay him achieving 

his vow.' 
Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the 

tournament cease, 
He flung down his warder, the trumpets 

sung peace ; 
And the judges declare, and competitors 

yield, 
That the Knight of the Night-gear was first 

in the field. 

The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was 

nigher, 
When before the fair Princess low louted a 

squire, 
And delivered a garment unseemly to view. 
With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all hacked 

and pierced through; 
All rent and all tattered, all clotted with 

bloodj 
With foam of the horses, with dust, and 

with mud; 
Not the point of that lady's small finger, I 

ween. 
Could have rested on spot was unsullied 

and clean, 

* This token my master, Sir Thomas h 

Kent, 

Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent: 

He that climbs the tall tree has won right 
to the fruit. 

He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail 
in his suit; 

Through life's utmost peril the prize I have 
won, 

And now must the faith of my mistress be 
shown ; 

For she who prompts knights on such dan- 
ger to run. 

Must avouch his true service in front of the 

SUUo 

* I restore,' says my master, * the garment 

I 'vo worn, 
And I claim of the Princess to don it in 

turn, 
F'or its stains and its rents she should prize 

it the more, 



Since by shame 't is unsullied, though crim- 
soned with gore.' 

Then deep blushed the Princess, yet kissed 
she and pressed 

The blood-spotted robes to her lips and her 
breast . 

* Go tell my true knight, church and cham- 

ber shall show 
If I value the blood on this garment or no.' 

And when it was time for the nobles to 

pass. 
In solemn procession to minster and 

mass, 
The first walked the Princess in purple and 

pall, 
But the blood-besmeared night-robe she 

wore over all; 
And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at 

dine, 
When she knelt to her father and proffered 

the wine. 
Over all her rich robes and state jewels she 

wore 
That wimple unseemly bedabbled with gore. 

Then lords whispered ladies, as well you 

may think, 
And ladies replied, with nod, titter, and 

wink: 
And the Prince, who in anger and shame had 

looked down, 
Turned at length to his daughter, and 

spoke with a frown: 

* Now since thou hast published thy folly 

and guilt, 

E'en atone with thy hand for the blood 
thou hast spilt; 

Yet sore for your boldness you both will 
repent, 

When you wandei as exiles from fair Bene- 
vent.' 

Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall 

where he stood, 
Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of 

mood; 
' The bh)()d that I lost for this daughter of 

thine, 
I poured forth as freely as flask gives its 

wine: 
And if for my sake she brooks }>enance and 

bhimo, 
Uo not doubt I will save her from suflfe ring 

and shame; 



480 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



And light will she reck of thy princedom 

and rent. 
When I hail her, in England, the Countess 

of Kento' 



VERSES FROM WOODSTOCK 
PubHshed in 1826o 



'by pathless march, by greenwood 
tree' 

From Chapter xivo 

By pathless marchj by greenwood tree. 
It is thy weird to follow me: 
To follow me through the ghastly moon- 
light, 
To follow me through the shadows of night, 
To follow me, comrade, still art thou bound : 
I conjure thee by the unstanched wound, 
1 conjure thee by the last words I spoke. 
When the body slept and the spirit awoke, 
In the very last pangs of the deadly stroke ! 



II 

GLEE FOR KING CHARLES 

From Chapter xxo 

Bring the bowl which you boast, 

Fill it up to the brim; 
'T is to him we love most, 

And to all who love him. 
Brave gallants, stand up, 

And avaunt ye, base carles ! 
Were there death in the cup, 

Here 's a health to King Charles ! 

Though he wanders through dangers, 

Unaided, unknown, 
Dependent on strangers, 

Estranged from his own; 
Though 't is under our breath 

Amidst forfeits and perils, 
Here 's to honor and faith. 

And a health to King Charles f 

Let such honors abound 

As the time can afford, 
The knee on the ground, 

And the hand on the sword; 



But the time shall come round 

When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 

The loud trumpet shall sound, 
Here 's a health to King Charles ! 



Ill 

*AN HOUR WITH THEE' 

From Chapter xxvi« 

An hour with thee ! When earliest day 
Dapples with gold the eastern gray. 
Oh, what can frame my mind to bear 
The toil and turmoil, cark and care. 
New griefs, which coming hours unfold, 
And sad remembrance of the old ? 

One hour with thee 

One hour with thee ! When burning June 
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon; 
What shall repay the faithful swain 
His labor on the sultry plain; 
And more than cave or sheltering bough. 
Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow ? 
One hour with thee ! 

One hour with thee ! When sun is set, 
Oh ! what can teach me to forget 
The thankless labors of the day; 
The hopes, the wishes, flung away; 
The increasing wants and lessening gains. 
The master's pride who scorns my pains ? — 
One hour with thee ! 



IV 

*son of a witch' 

From Chapter xxx. 

Son of a witch, 

Mayst thou die in a ditch. 
With the butchers who back thy quarrels; 

And rot above ground. 

While the world shall resound 
A welcome to Royal King Charles. 



LINES TO SIR CUTHBERT 
SHARP 

Lockhart, in Chapter Ixxv. of the -L{/e, 
writes : ' Sir Cuthhert Sharp, who had been 
particularly kind and attentive to Scott when 
at Sunderland, happened, in writing to him on 



VERSES FROM CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE 481 



some matter of business, to say he hoped he had 
not forgotten his friends in that quarter. Sir 
Walter's answer to Sir Cuthbert [October, 1827] 
(who had been introduced to him by his old and 
dear friend, Mr. Surtees of Mainsforth) begins 
thus : ' — 

Forget thee ! No ! my worthy fere ! 
Forget blithe mirth and gallant cheer ! 
Death sooner stretch me on my bier ! 

Forget thee ? No. 

Forget the universal shont 

When * canny Sunderland ' spoke out: 

A truth which knaves alt'ect to doubt: 

Forget thee ? No. 

Forget you ? No: though nowaday 
I 've heard your knowing people say, 
* Disown the debt you cannot pay, 
You '11 find, it far the thriftiest way ' — 
But I? — O no. 

Forget your kindness found for all room. 
In what, though large, seemed still a small 

room, 
Forget my Surtees in a ball-room: 

Forget you ? No. 

Forget your sprightly dumpty-diddles. 
And beauty tripping to the fiddles, 
Forget my lovely friends the Liddells : 

Forget you ? No. 



VERSES FROM CHRONICLES OF 
THE CANONGATE 

Published in 1827. 



OLD SONG 
From The Highland Widow, Chapter ii. 

Oh, I 'm come to the Low Country, 

Och, och, ohonochie. 
Without a penny in my pouch 

To buy a meal for me. 
I was the proudest of my clan. 

Long, long may I repine; 
And Donald was the bravest man, 

And Donald he was mine. 



II 

THE LAY OF POOR LOUISE 

From Chapter x. of The Fair Maid of Perth. 

Ah, poor Louise ! the livelong day 
She roams from cot to castle gay; 
And still her voice and viol say. 
Ah, maids, beware the woodland way. 

Think on Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! The sun was high, 
It smirched her cheek, it dimmed her eye, 
The woodland walk was cool and nigh, 
Where birds with chiming streamlets vie 
To cheer Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! The savage bear 
Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair; 
The wolves molest not paths so fair — 
But better far had such been there 

For poor Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! In woody wold 
She met a huntsman fair and bold; 
His baldrick was of silk and gold, 
And many a witching tale he told 

To poor Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! Small cause to pine 
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine; 
For peace of mind, tliat gift divine, 
And spotless innocence svere thine, 

Ah, poor Louise ! 

Ah, poor Louise ! Thy treasure 's reft ! 
I know not if by force or theft, 
Or part by violence, part by gift; 
But misery is all that 's left 

To poor Louise. 

Let poor Louiso some succor have ! 
She will not h)ng your bounty cnive, 
Or tiro the gay with warning stave — 
For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave, 
For poor Louise. 

Ill 

DEATH CHANT 

From Chapter xxii. ' Ero ho gurtwod whore 
lio wjis c:<»i»>jr. tho loooli wiia hurriod int«» fho 
liuuBoof the lato Oliver Proudtut4), from uhioh 



482 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



be heard the chant of the women, as they 
swathed and dressed the corpse of the umquhile 
Bonnet-maker, for the ceremony of next morn- 
ing, of which chant, the following verses may 
be received as a modem imitation : — 

Viewless Essence, thin and bare, 

Well-nigh melted into air; 

Still with fondness hovering near 

The earthly form thou once didst wear; 

Pause upon thy pinion's flight. 
Be thy course to left or right; 
Be thou doomed to soar or sink, 
Pause upon the awful brink. 

To avenge the deed expelling 
Thee untimely from thy dwelling. 
Mystic force thou shalt retain 
O'er the blood and o'er the brain. 

When the form thou shalt espy 
That darkened on thy closing eye; 
When the footstep thou shalt hear 
That thrilled upon thy dying ear; 

Then strange sympathies shall wake. 
The flesh shall thrill, the nerves shall quake ; 
The wounds renew their clottered flood. 
And every drop cry blood for blood. 



rv 



SONG OF THE GLEE-MAIDEN 

From Chapter xxx. ' The maiden sung a 
melancholy dirge in Norman French ; the 
words, of which the following is an imitation, 
were united to a tune as doleful as they are 
themselves : ' — 

Yes, thou mayst sigh, 
And look once more at all around. 
At stream and bank, and sky and ground ; 
Thy life its final course has found, 

And thou must die. 

Yes, lay thee down. 
And while thy struggling pulses flutter. 
Bid the grey monk his soul-mass mutter 
And the deep bell its death-tone utter: 

Thy life is gone. 

Be not afraid, 
*T b but a pang, and then a thrill, 



A fever fit, and then a chill; 
And then an end of human ill: 
For thou art dead. 



THE DEATH OF KEELDAR 

These verses, written in 1828, were published 
in The Gem, an annual edited by Hood. They 
accompanied an engraving from a painting by 
Cooper, suggested by the incident. 

Up rose the sun o'er moor and mead; 
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede; 
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed, 

Careered along the lea; 
The Palfrey sprung with sprightly bound, 
As if to match the gamesome hound; 
His horn the gallant huntsman wound: 

They were a jovial three ! 

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame, 
To wake the wild deer never came 
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game 

On Cheviot's rueful day: 
Keeldar was matchless in his speed. 
Than Tarras ne'er was stancher steed, 
A peerless archer, Percy Rede; 

And right dear friends were they. 

The chase engrossed their joys and woes. 
Together at the dawn they rose. 
Together shared the noon's repose 

By fountain or by stream ; 
And oft when evening skies were red 
The heather was their common bed. 
Where each, as wildering fancy led, 

Still hunted in his dream. 

Now is the thrilling moment near 
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear; 
Yon thicket holds the harbored deer, 

The signs the hunters know: 
With eyes of flame and quivering ears 
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears; 
The restless palfrey paws and rears; 

The archer strings his bow. 

The game 's afoot ! — Halloo ! Halloo ! 
Hunter and horse and hound pursue; — 
But woe the shaft that erring flew — 

That e'er it left the string ! 
And ill betide the faithless yew ! 
The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew 
And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true 

Has drenched the gray-goose wing. 



THE SECRET TRIBUNAL 



483 



The noble hound — he dies, he dies ; 
Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes; 
Stiff on the bloody heath he lies 

Without a groan or quiver. 
Now day may break and bugle sound, 
And whoop and hollow ring around. 
And o'er his couch the stag may bound. 

But Keeldar sleeps forever. 

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes, 

Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise; 

He knows not that his comrade dies. 

Nor what is death — - but still 
His aspect hath expression drear 
Of grief and wonder mixed with fear. 
Like startled children when they hear 

Some mystic tale of ill. 

But he that bent the fatal bow 
Can well the sum of evil know, 
And o'er his favorite bending low 

In speechless grief recline; 
Can think he hears the senseless clay 
In unreproachful accents say, 

* The hand that took my life away, 

Dear master, was it thine ? 

* And if it be, the shaft be blessed 
Which sure some erring aim addressed, 
Since in your service prized, caressed, 

I in your service die ; 
And you may have a fleeter hound 
To match the dun-deer's merry bound, 
But by your couch will ne'er be found 

So true a guard as I.' 

And to his last stout Percy rued 
The fatal chance, for when he stood 
'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud 

And fell amid the fray, 
E'en with his dying voice he cried, 

* Had Keeldar but been at my side, 

Your treacherous ambush had been spied — 
I had not died to-day 1 ' 

Remembrance of the erring bow 

Long since had joined the tides which 

flow, 
Conveying human bliss and woe 

Down dark oblivion's river; 
But Art can Time's stern doom arrest 
And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast, 
And, in her Cooper's colors drest. 

The scene shall live forever. 



THE SECRET TRIBUNAL 

From Anne of Geier stein, published in 1829. 

From Chapter xx. ' Philipson could perceive 
that the lights proceeded from many torches, 
borne by men muffled in black cloaks, like 
mourners at a funeral, or the Black Friars of 
Saint Francis's Order, wearing their cowls 
drawn over their heads, so as to conceal their 
features. They appeared anxiously engaged 
in measuring off a portion of the apartment ; 
and, while occupied in that emplojTuent, they 
sung, in the ancient German language, rhymes 
more rude than Philipson could well under- 
stand, but which may be imitated thus : ' — 

Measurers of good and evil, 

Bring the square, the line, the level, — 

Rear the altar, dig the trench. 

Blood both stone and ditch shall drench. 

Cubits six, from end to end. 

Must the fatal bench extend; 

Cubits six, from side to side, 

Judge and culprit must divide. 

On the east the Court assembles, 

On the west the Accused trembles: 

Answer, brethren, all and one, 

Is the ritual rightly done ? 



On life and soul, on blood and bone, 
One for all, and all for one, 
We warrant this is rightly done. 



How wears the night? Doth morning 

shine 
In early radiance on the Rhine ? 
What music floats upon his tide ? 
Do birds the tardy nu)rning chide ? 
Brethren, look out from hill and lu'ight, 
And answer true, how wears the night ? 



The night is old; on Rhine's broad breast 
Glance drowsy stars whioli long to rest 

No beams are twinkling in the east. 
There is a voice upon the flood, 
The stern still call of blood for blood; 

*T is time we listen the behest. 

Up, then, up ! When day *8 at rest, 
'Tis time that such as we are watchers; 



484 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



Rise to judgment, brethren, rise ! 
Vengeance knows not sleepy eyes, 
He and night are matchers. 



THE FORAY 

Printed in Thomson's Scottish Collection, 
1830, and set to music by John Whitefield, 
Mus. Doc. Cam. 

The last of our steers on the board has 

been spread, 
And the last flask of wine in our goblet is 

red; 
Up ! up, my brave kinsmen ! belt swords 

and begone. 
There are dangers to dare and there 's spoil 

to be won. 

The eyes that so lately mixed glances with 

ours 
For a space must be dim, as they gaze 

from the towers. 
And strive to distinguish through tempest 

and gloom 
The prance of the steed and the toss of the 

plume. 

The rain is descending; the wind rises 
loud; 

And the moon her red beacon has veiled 
with a cloud; 

'T is the better, my mates ! for the war- 
der's dull eye 

Shall in confidence slumber nor dream we 
are nigh. 

Our steeds are impatient ! I hear my 

blithe Gray ! 
There is life in his hoof -clang and hope in 

his neigh; 
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of 

his mane 
Shall marshal your march through the 

darkness and rain. 

The drawbridge has dropped, the bugle 

has blown; 
One pledge is to quaff yet — then mount 

and begone ! — 
To their honor and peace that shall rest 

with the slain; 
To their health and their glee that see 

Teviot again! 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV. 
GEORGE SCOTT 

George Scott was the son of Hugh Scott of 
Harden. He died at Kentisbeare, in Devon- 
shire, where he was rector of the church, in 
1830. The verses are on his tomb. 

To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale 
Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale. 
Art thou a parent ? Reverence this bier. 
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here. 
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start. 
With opening talents and a generous heart; 
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all thine 

own ? 
Lo ! here their end — a monumental stone. 
But let submission tame each sorrowing 

thought. 
Heaven crowned its champion ere the fight 

was fought. 



SONGS FROM THE DOOM OF 
DEVORGOIL 

Scott's play, The Doom of Devorgoil, though 
not published till 1830, was sketched, and appa- 
rently written as early as 1817, and the song of 
Bonny Dundee was written, Scott notes in his 
diary, in December, 1825. He notes also that 
the first song was abridged into County Guy, 



* THE SUN UPON THE LAKE ' 

The sun upon the lake is low, 

The wild birds hush their song, 
The hills have evening's deepest glow, 

Yet Leonard tarries long. 
Now all whom varied toil and care 

From home and love divide, 
In the calm sunset may repair 

Each to the loved one's side. 

The noble dame, on turret high 

Who waits her gallant knight. 
Looks to the western beam to spy 

The flash of armor bright. 
The village maid, with hand on brow 

The level ray to shade. 
Upon the footpath watches now 

For Colin's darkening plaid. 

Now to their mates the wild swans row, 
By day they swam apart; 



SONGS FROM THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL 



485 



And to the thicket wanders slow 
The hind beside the hart. 

The woodlark at his partner's side 
Twitters his closing song — 

All meet whom day and care divide, 
But Leonard tarries long. 



II 



* WE LOVE THE SHRILL TRUMPET ' 

We love the shrill trumpet, we love the 
drum's rattle, 

They call us to sport, and they call us to 
battle ; 

And old Scotland shall laugh at the threats 
of a stranger. 

While our comrades in pastime are com- 
rades in danger. 

If there's mirth in our house, 'tis our 

neighbor that shares it — 
If peril approach, 'tis our neighbor that 

dares it; 
And when we lead off to the pipe and the 

tabor. 
The fair hand we press is the hand of a 

neighbor. 

Then close your ranks, comrades, the bands 
that combine them. 

Faith, friendship, and brotherhood, joined 
to entwine them; 

And we '11 laugh at the threats of each in- 
solent stranger. 

While our comrades in sport are our com- 
rades in danger. 



Ill 



» ADMIRE NOT THAT I GAINED THE PRIZE' 

Admire not that I gained the prize 

From all the village crew; 
How could I fail with hand or eyes 

When heart and faitli were true ? 

And when in floods of rosy wine 
My comrades drowned their cares, 

I thought but that thy heart was mine. 
My own leapt light as theirs. 

My brief delay then do not blame, 
Nor deem your swain untrue; 



My form but lingered at the game. 
My soul was still with you. 



IV 



* WHEN THE TEMPEST ' 

When the tempest 's at the loudest 

On its gale the eagle rides; 
When the ocean rolls the proudest 

Through the foam the sea-bird glides - 
All the rage of wind and sea 
Is subdued by constancy. 

Gnawing want and sickness pining, 
All the ills that men endure, 

Each their various pangs combining, 
Constancy can find a cure — 

Pain and Fear and Poverty 

Are subdued by constancy. 

Bar me from each wonted pleasure. 
Make me abject, mean, and poor, 

Heap on insults without measure. 
Chain me to a dungeon floor — 

I '11 be happy, rich, and free. 

If endowed with constancy. 



BONNY DUNDEE 

Am — * The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee ' 

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Clav- 

er'se who spoke, 
< Ere the King's crown shall fall there are 

crowns to be broke; 
So let each Cavalier who loves honor and 

me, 
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can, 
Come saddle your liorses and call up 

your men; 
Come optMi the West Port and let me 
gang free, 
And it 's room for the bonnets of Bonny 
Dundee ! ' 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 

street, 
The bells are rung backward, the drums 

they are boat; 



486 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



But the Provost, douce man, said, * Just 

e'en let him be, 
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil 

of Dundee. ' 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

As he rode down the sanctified bends of 

the Bow, 
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her 

pow; 
But the young plants of grace they looked 

couthie and slee, 
Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny 

Dundee ! 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmar- 

ket was crammed 
As if half the West had set tryst to be 

hanged ; 
There was spite in each look, there was 

fear in each e'e. 
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny 

Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and 
had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cava- 
liers ; 

But they shrunk to close-heads and the 
causeway was free, 

At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle 
rock, 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 
spoke ; 

'Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak 
twa words or three. 

For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
dee.' 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

The Gordon demands of him which way he 
goes — 

* Where'er shall direct me the shade of 
Montrose ! 

Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings 
of me, 

Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
dee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 



* There are hills beyond Pentland and lands 

beyond Forth, 

If there 's lords in the Lowlands, there 's 
chiefs in the North; 

There are wild Duniewassals three thou- 
sand times three. 

Will cry hoigli ! for the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

* There 's brass on the target of barkened 

bull-hide ; 
There 's steel in the scabbard that dangles 

beside ; 
The brass shall be burnished, the steel 

shall flash free. 
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

* Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 

rocks — 
Ere I own an usurper, I '11 couch with the 

fox; 
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of 

your glee. 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet 

and me ! ' 
Come fill up my cup, etc. 

He waved his proud hand and the trumpets 

were blown. 
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horse- 
men rode on. 
Till on Bavelston's cliffs and on Clermis- 

ton's lee 
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can. 
Come saddle the horses and call up 

the men; 
Come open your gates and let me gae 
free. 
For it 's up with the bonnets of Bonny 
Dundee ! 



VI 



<WHEN FRIENDS ARE MET' 

When friends are met o'er merry cheer, 
And lovely eyes are laughing near, 
And in the goblet's bosom clear 
The cares of day are drowned; 



LINES ON FORTUNE 



487 



When puns are made and bumpers quaffed, 
And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft, 
And Mirth his jovial laugh has laughed. 

Then is our banquet crowned, 
Ah ! gay, 

Then is our banquet crowned. 

When glees are sung and catches trolled, 
And bashfulness grows bright and bold. 
And beauty is no longer cold, 

And age no longer dull; 
When chimes are brief and cocks do crow 
To tell us it is time to go. 
Yet how to part we do not know, 

Then is our feast at full. 
Ah ! gay. 

Then is our feast at full. 



* HITHER WE come' 

A song from the drama of Auchindrane ; or 
The Ayrshire Tragedy^ published in 1830. 

Hither we come. 

Once slaves to the drum, 
But no longer we list to its rattle ; 

Adieu to the wars. 

With their slashes and scars, 
The march, and the storm, and the battle. 

There are some of us maimed. 

And some that are lamed, 
And some of old aches are complaining; 

But we '11 take up the tools 

Which we flung by like fools, 
'Gainst Don Spaniard to go a-campaigning. 

Dick Hathorn doth vow 

To return to the plough. 
Jack Steele to his anvil and hammer; 

The weaver shall find room 

At the wight-wapping loom. 
And your clerk shall teach writing and 
grammar. 



THE DEATH OF DON PEDRO 

Lockliart inclndod this l)jill;i(l in liis Ancient 
Spanish Ballads, publishcMl in lS'J;5,jin(l cnulitii 
the translation to Sir Waltia*. IIo nnninds i\w 
reader that it was (pioted nioro than once by 
Cervantes in his Don Quixote. 



Henry and King Pedro clasping, 
Hold in straining arms each other; 

Tugging hard and closely grasping. 
Brother proves his strength with 
brother. 

Harmless pastime, sport fraternal. 
Blends not thus their limbs in strife; 

Either aims, with rage infernal. 
Naked dagger, sharpened knife. 

Close Don Henry grapples Pedro, 
Pedro holds Don Henry strait; 

Breathing, this, triumphant fury, 
That, despair and mortal hate. 

Sole spectator of the struggle. 
Stands Don Henry's page afar, 

In the chase, who bore his bugle, 
And who bore his sword in war. 

Down they go in deadly wrestle, 
Down upon the earth they go, 

Fierce King Pedro has the vantage, 
Stout Don Henry falls below. 

Marking then the fatal crisis. 

Up the page of Henry ran. 
By the waist he caught Don Pedro, 

Aiding thus the fallen man. 

* King to place, or to depose him, 

Dwelleth not in my desire. 
But the duty which he owes him, 
To his master pays the squire.' 

Now Don Henry has the upmost. 
Now King Pedro lies beneath, 

In his heart his brother's poniard. 
Instant finds its bloody sheath. 

Thus with mortal gasp and quiver, 
While the blood in bubbles welled. 

Fled the fiercest soul that ever 
In a Christian bosom dwelled. 



LINES ON FORTUNE 

* Another object of this ionrnoy was to con- 
sult, on tho advii'o of Dr. Khenezor CljirkH(»n, 
a skilful nu'i'luiiuHt, by n.injo Fortnttr, about a 
contrivjineo for tho support of tho lanu» limb, 
which had of lato pfivon him much \vx\u, aa 
well as inconvenience. Mr. Fortune protluoed 



488 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



a clever piece of handiwork, and Sir Walter 
felt at first great relief from the use of it : in- 
asmuch that his spirits rose to quite the old 
pitch, and his letter to me upon the occasion 
overflows with merry applications of sundry 
maxims and verses about Fortune. '" Fortes 
Fortuna adjuvat "' — he says — '' never more 
sing I ! •' ' Lockhart, Chapter Ixxix. The first 
stanza is an old Elizabethan song. The second, 
Scott's palinode, appeais to be his last effort in 
verse. The incident was in February, 1831. 

Fortune, my Foe, why dost thou frown 

on me ? 
And will my Fortune never better be ? 



Wilt thou, I say, forever breed my« 

pain? 11 

And wilt thou ne'er return my joys" 
again ? 

No — let my ditty be henceforth — 

Fortune, my friend, how well thou favor- 

est me ! 
A kinder Fortune man did never see ! 
Thou propp'st my thigh, thou ridd'st my 

knee of pain, 
I '11 walk, I '11 mount — I '11 be a man 

again. — 



GLOSSARY AND INDEXES 



GLOSSARY 



ahhaye, abbey. 

acton, buckram vest worn under armor. 

mV, sand-bank, 

almagest, astronomical or astrological treatise. 

Almayn, German. 

amice, ecclesiastical vestment. 

angel, a gold coin. 

arquebus, bagbut, or heavy musket. 

aventayle, movable front of helmet. 

baldric, belt. 

bale, beacon-lire. 

ballium, fortified court. 

bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition. 

ban-dog, watch-dog. 

bandrol, sl kind of banner or ensign. 

barbican, fortification at castle-gate. 

barded, armored (of horses). 

barding, horse-armor. 

barret-cap, cloth cap. 

bartizan, small overhanging turret. 

basnet, light helmet. 

bassened, having a white stripe down the face. 

battalia, battalion, army {not a plural). 

battle, army. 

beadsman, one hired to offer prayers for an- 
other. 

beaver, movable front of helmet. 

Beltane, the first of May (a Celtic festival), 

bend, bind. 

bend (noun), heraldic term. 

bent, slope. 

beshrew, may evil befall ; confound. 

bill, a kind of battle-axe or halberd. 

billmen, troops armed with the bill. 

black-jack, leather jug or pitcher. 

blaze ^ blazon, proclaim. 

bonail, i. e. bonallez, a god-speed, parting with 
a friend. 

bonnet-pieces, gold coins with the king's cai) 
(bonnet) on them. 

boune, bowne, prepare, make ready. 

boune, ready, prepared. 

bourd, jest. 

bower, chamber, lodging-place ; lady's apart- 
ments. 

brae, hillside. 

braid, broad. 

bratchet, slowliound. - 

brigantine, a kind of body armor. 

brigg, bridge. 

brocic, badger. 

broke, quartered (the cutting up of a deer). 

brofikins, buskins. 

bujf^, a thick cloth. 

buxom, lively. 

by times, betimes, early. 

caird, tinker. 

cairn, heap of stones. 

canna, cotton-grasH. 

cap of mnintmaun', ci\\) worn by the kiug-at- 

arms or chief herald. 
carp, talk. 



cast, pair (of hawks). 

chanters, the pipes of the bagpipe. 

check at, meditate attack (in talconry). 

cheer, face, countenance. 

claymore, a large sword. 

clerk, scholar. 

clip, clasp, embrace. 

combust, astrological term. 

corbel, bracket, 

coronach, dirge. 

correi, hollow in hillside, resort of game. 

crabs, crab-apples. 

crenell, aperture for shooting arrows through. 

cresset, hanging lamp or chandelier. 

culver, small cannon. 

cumber, trouble. 

curch, matron's coif, or head-dress. 

cushat-dove, wood-pigeon. 

darkling, in the dark. 

deas, dais, platform. 

deft, skilful. 

demi-volt, movement in horsemanship. 

dern, hid. 

dight, decked, dressed. 

donjon, main tower or keep of a castle. 

doom, judgment, arbitration. 

double tressure, a kind of border in heraldry, 

dought, could, 

down, hill. 

drie, suffer, endure. 

earn (see erne). 

eburnine. made of ivory. 

embossed, foaming at the mouth (hunter's term). 

emprise, enterprise. 

ensenzie, ensign, war-cry. 

erne, eagle. 

even, spotless. 

falcon, a kind of small cannon. 

fang, to catch. 

far yaud, the signal made by a sheplicnl to his 

dog, when he is to drive away some sheep at 

a distance. 
fauld, sheep-fold. 
fay, faith. 
ferlic, marvel. 

ficmtus-firth, asylum for outlaws. 
force, waterfall. 
fosse, ditch, moat. 
fretted, adorned witli raised work. 
fro, from. 
frounced, flounced, plaited. 

(jalliard, a lively danoo. 

giillowglasses, heavy-armed soldiers (Celtic). 

(far, to make. 

(/(izehonud, a hound that pursues by sight nither 

than scent. 
ghdst, ghsmlly. 

gipon, (huibli't or iacket worn under anuor. 
g/(i{tu\ broadsword. 
glamour, magical illusion. 



492 GLOSSARY 


glee-maiden^ dancing-girl. 


lorn, lost. 


glidders, slippery stones. 


lourd, rather. 


glozing, flattering. 


lout, bend, stoop. 


gorged^ having the throat cuto 


lurch, rob. 


gorget, armor for the throat. 


lurcher, a dog that lurches (lurks), or lies in wai 


graith, armor, ^ 


for game. 


gramarye, magic. 


lurdane, blockhead. 


gramercy, great thanks (French, grand merci). 


lyke-wake, watching of corpse before burial. 


gree, prize. 

gripvie, grasping, miserly. 

grisly, horrible, grim. 


make, do. 


ma/isow, malediction, curse^ 


guarded, edged, trimmed. 


Malvoisie, Malmsey wine. 


gules ^ red (heraldic). 


march, border, frontier. 




march-treason, offences committed on the Bor- 


hacJcbuteer, soldier armed with hackbut or hag- 


der. 


but. 


massy, massive. 


haffets, cheeks. 


mavis, thrush. 


hag, broken ground in a bog. 


melle, melt, meddle. 


hagbut (hackbut, haquebut, arquebus, harquebuss. 


merle, blackbird. 


etc.), a heavy musket. 


mewed, shut up, confined. 


halberd (halbert), combined spear and battle-axe. 


mickle, much, great. 


hale^ haul, drag. 


minion, favorite. 


hanger, short broadsword. 


miniver, a kind of fur. 


harried, plundered, sacked. 


mirk, dark. 


hearse, canopy over tomb, or the tomb itself. 


morion, steel cap, helmet. 


heeze, hoist. 


morrice-pike, long heavy spear. 


hent, seize. 


morris, sl kind of dance. 


heriot, tribute due to a lord from a vassal. 


mor sing-horns, powder-flasks. 


heron-shew, young heron. 


mot {mote), must, might. 


hight, called, named. 


muir, moor, heath. 


holt, wood, woodland. 




hosen, hose (old plural). 


need-jire, beacon-fire. 




nese, nose. 


idlesse, idleness. 




imp, child. 


oe, island. 


inch, island. 


hone, alas ! 




Omrahs, nobles (Turkish). 


jack, leather jacket, a kind of armor for the 


or, gold (heraldic). 


body. 


owchesj jewels. 


jennet, a small Spanish horse. 




jerkin, a kind of short coat. 


pallioun, pavilion. 




palmer, pilgrim to Holy Land, 


kale, broth. 


pardoner, seller of priestly indulgences. 


keek, peep. 


jmrtisan, halberd. 


kern, light-armed soldier (Celtic). 


j)eel. Border tower. 


kill, cell. 


pensils, small pennons or streamers. 


kirn, Scottish harvest-home. 


pentacle, magic diagram. -^^^^ 


kirtle, skirt, gown. 


pibroch. Highland air on bagpipe. '^^^H 


knosp, knob (architectural). 


pied, variegated. -^^^I 

pinnet, pinnacle. 

placket, stomacher, petticoat, slit in petticoat. 


lair, to stick in the mud. 


largesse, largess, liberality, gift. 


etc. m 


lauds, midnight service of the Catholic Church. 


plate-jack, coat-armor, ■ 


launcegay, a kind of spear. 


plump, body of cavalry ; group, company. ■ 


laverock, lark. 


poke, sack, pocket. V 


leaguer, camp. 


port, martial bagpipe music. ■ 
post and pair, an old game at cards. ^M 


leash, thong for leading greyhound ; also the 


hounds so led. 


presence, royal presence-chamber. ^M 


leven, lawn, an open space between or among 


pricked, spurred. ^* 


woods. 


pryse, the note blown at the death of the game. 


levin, lightning, thunderbolt. 


pursuivant, attendant on herald. 


Lincoln green, a cloth worn by huntsmen. 




linn, waterfall ; pool below fall ; precipice. 


quaigh, wooden cup, composed of staves hooped 


linstock (lintstock), handle iovlint, or match used 


together. 


in firing cannon. 


quarry, game (hunter's term). 


lists, enclosure for tournament. 


quatre-feuille, quatrefoil (Gothic ornament), 


litherlie, mischievous, vicious. 


quit, requite. 



GLOSSARY 



493 



^ack^ floating cloud. 

'■acking, flying, like breaking cloud, 

-ac/e, rode (old form). 

-ais, master of a vesseL 

•eads^ counsels. 

'eave, tear away. 

'ede, story ; counsel, advice. 

•etrograde^ astrological term. 

16, prince or chief, O hone a rie, alas for the 

chief ! 
isp, creak. 

ochet^ bishop's short surplice. 
ood^ cross (as in Holy-Rood), 
'^oom, piece of land. 
owan^ mountain-ash. 
uth^ pity, compassion. 

ack^ Sherry or Canary wine. 
ackless^ innocent, 
aga, Scandinavian epic. 
altier^ stirrup. 
alvo-shot, salute of artillery. 
aye^ say, assertion. 
calds, Scandinavian minstrels. 
capular^ ecclesiastical scarf. 
cathe, harm, injury, 
cawr, cliff, precipice. 
crae^ bank of loose stones. 
crogg, shady wood. 
ea-dog, seal. 

elcouth, strange, uncouth. 
e/Ze, saddle. 

eneschaU steward of castle. 
ewer^ officer who serves up a feast. 
Aa/m, shawm, musical instrumento 
heeling^ shepherd's hut. 
heen^ bright, shining. 
hent^ shamed. 
hrieve^ shrive, absolve. 
hroud^ garment, plaid. 
[eights, tricks, stratagems. 
logan, Highland battle-cry. 
nood, maiden's hair-band or fillet. 
oland, solan-goose, gannet. 
ooth^ true, truth. 
ped, despatched, ' done for.' 
peer, speir^ ask. 
pellj make out, study out. 
perthe, a battle-axe. 
pringlet^ small spring. 
pule, shoulder. 
purn, kick. 

tag often, one having ten branches on his ant- 
lers. 
tance, station. 
terte, started. 
tirrup-mp, parting cup. 
tole, ecclosiaHtical scarf (sometimes robo). 
toled, wearing the stole, 
tore (adjective), stort^d up. 
towre, battle, tumult. 
train, stock, race. 
Hrath, broad riv<'r-valley. 
trathspey^ a Highland dance. 
treight, strait. 
trook, struck, stricken. 
iumah^ faithful. 



sivith, haste. 
syde, long. 
syne, since. 

tabard, herald's coat. 
tarn, mountain lake. 
tartan, the full Highland dress, made of the 

checquered stuff so termed. 
telt, SL plait or plaited knot. 
throstle, thrush. 
tide, time. 
tint, lost. 
tire, head-dress. 
tottered, tattered, ragged. 
train, allure, entice. 
tressure, border (heraldic). 
trews. Highland trousers. 
trine, astrological term. 
trow, believe, trust. 
tyke, dog. 
tyne, to lose. 

uneath, not easily, with difficulty. 
unsparred, unbarred. 

upsees. Bacchanalian cry or interjection, bor- 
rowed from the Dutch, 
urchin, elf. 

vail, avail. 

vail, lower, let fall. 

vair, fur of squirrel. 

vantage-coign, advantageous corner. 

vaunt-brace, or warn-bract, arniur i\.>r the body. 

vaward^ van, front. 

vilde, vile. 

laan, won (old form). 

Warden-raid, a raid commanded by a Border 
Warden in i)erson. 

ivarlock, a wizard. 

warped, frozen. 

warrison, 'note of assault ' (Scott). 

wassail, sniced ale ; drinking-bout. 

weapon-schaw, military array of a county ; mus- 
ter. 

M;ee^/, garment. 

iveira^ fate, doom. 

whenas, when. 

whilcre (while-ere), erewhile, a while ago. 

whilom (whilome), formerly. 

whin, goi*se, fur/e. 

whingers, knivi's, poniards. 

irhinyard, hunter's knifi'. 

wiaht, active, gallant, wor-liko. 

wildtring, bewildering. 

wimpl(\ veil. 

woe-worth, woe Ih» to. 

wamd, dwelt. 

wraith, apparition, spectre. 

urtak, avenge. 

pare, ready. 

ynfe, gate. 

yattd, Hoofar yand. 

yvrk, jerk. 

yode^ wont (archaic). 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



[Including the first Lines of Songs contained in the longer Poems] 



A CAT of yore — or else old ^sop lied, — 439. 

A mightier wizard far than I, 457. 

A thousand winters dark have flown, 462. 

A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 253. 

A weary month has wandered o'er, 420. 

Admire not that I gained the prize, 485. 

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 472. 

Ah, poor Louise ! the livelong day, 481. 

Alas ! alas ! 456. 

All joy was bereft me the day that you left me, 

401. 
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 254. 
Amid these aisles where once his precepts 

showed, 405. 
An hour with thee ! When earliest day, 480. 
And art thou cold and lowly laid, 205. 
And did ye not hear of a mirth befell, 413. 
And ne'er but once, my son, he says, 23. 
And what though winter will pinch severe, 430. 
And whither would you lead me then, 270. 
And you shall deal the funeral dole, 464. 
Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, 452. 
As lords their laborers' hire delay, 474. 
As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, 

436. 
Ask thy heart, whose secret cell, 457. 
Assist me, ye friends of Old Books and Old 

Wine, 471. 
Autumn departs — but still its mantle's fold, 

313. 
Ave Maria ! maiden mild ! 180. 
Ay ! and I taught thee the word and the spell, 

455. 

Birds of omen dark and foul, 448. 

Bold knights and fair dames, to my harp give an 

ear, 19. 
Bring the bowl which you boast, 480. 
But follow, follow me, 418. 
By pathless march, by greenwood tree, 4S0. 
By ties mysterious linked, our fated race, 457. 

Cannv moment, lucky fit, 424. 
Cauld is my bed. Lord Archibald, 441. 
Champion, famed for warlike toil, 405. 
Come, Lucy, while 't is morning hour, 287. 
Complain not on me, child of clay, 457. 

Daring youth I for thee it is well, 456. 

Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still, 477. 

Dark are thy words and severe, 4(')2. 

Dark shall be light, 425. 

Dear John, — I some time ago wrote to inform 

his, 475. 
Dim burns the once bright star of Avencl, 457. 
Din.'is Emlinn, lament; for the moment is nigh, 

399. 



Donald Caird 's come again, 440. 

Dust unto dust, 453. 

Dwellers of the mountain, rise, 461. 

Emblem of England's ancient faith, 417. 
Enchantress, farewell, who so oft has decoyed 
me, 467. 

Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, 363. 
Far in the bosom of the deep, 410. 
Fare thee well, thou Holly green ! 458. 
Farewell! farewell ! the voice you hear, 404. 
Farewell, merry maidens, to sing and to laugh, 

463. 
Farewell to Mackenneth, great Earl of the 

North, 419. 
Farewell to Northmaven, 460. 
Fathoms deep beneath the wave, 461. 
Fearest thou to go with me ? 456. 
For all our men were very very merry, 473. 
For leagues along the watery way, 461 . 
Forget thee ! No ! my worthy fere I 481. 
Fortune, my Foe, why dost thou frown on me ? 

488. ^ 
Frederick leaves the land of France, 25. 
From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, 1. 
From the brown crest of Newark its summons 

extending, 424. 
From thy Pomeranian throne, 380. 

Glowing with love, on fire for fame, 423. 

Go sit old Cheviot's crest below, 25. 

God protect brave Alexander, 428. 

Good even, good fair moon, good even to thee, 

441. 
Good evening. Sir Priest, and so late as yon ride, 

454. 

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances I 

1(»8. 
Hail to thy cold and clouded beam, 2.'^0. 
Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills grow 

dark, 208. 
Harp of tho North ! that mouldering long hast 

hiui^, 1 ."»(). 
Hawk and osprey «crpann»d for joy. .'V*^2. 
He came - but valor liad ho fin»d liis eye, 429. 
He is gone on the mountain, 177. 
He, whose heart for vcngt>anci» sued, 4*^8. 
Health to the chieftain from hiH clnnHman trnel 

411. 
Hoar what Highland Nora finid, 427. 
Heir lyeth .]<thn o' yc (lirnoU. 429. 
Henry and King Pedro chwning, 487. 
Here lies the volume thou nast boldly sought, 

456. 
Here lyes ane saint to prelates surly, 431. 



496 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



Hie away, hie away, 414. 

High deeds achieved of knightly fame, 449. 

Hither we come, 487. 

^ ^&^} ?f "^y ^^^P» '^^o hath injured thy 
chords ? ' 476. 

I cHmbed the dark brow of the mighty Hell- 

vellyn, 38. 

I glance like the wildfire thro' country and 
town, 440. 

I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or 

twain, 450. 
I 'm Madge of the country, I 'm Madge of the 

town, 441. 
I was a wild and wayward boy, 267. 
Ill tares the bark with tackle riven, 383. 
In the bonny cells of Bedlam, 441. 
It chanced that Cupid on a season, 423. 
It is the bonny butcher lad, 441. 
It s up Glembarchan's braes I gaed, 414 
It was a little naughty page, 9. 
It was an English ladye bright, 76. 
It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound 

tor rales tme, 423. 

Joy to the victors, the sons of old Aspen, 10. 

Late, when the autumn evening fell, 414. 
Lives there a strain whose sounds of mounting- 
fire, 210. ^ 
Look not thou on beauty's charming, 448 
T^ ^^. J?7g^i^dle — on this thread of gold, 457. 
i^ord V\ lUiam was born in gilded bower, 377. 
Liove wakes and weeps, 464. 

Macleod's wizard flag from the gray castle sal- 
lies, 439. 

Maiden whose sorrows waH the Living Dead, 

4oo. 
Many a fathom dark and deep, 456. 
March, march, Ettrickand Teviotdale, 453. 
Measurers of good and evil, 483. 
Menseful maiden ne'er should rise, 465. 
Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 453. 
Merry it is m the good greenwood, 184. 
Mortal warp and mortal woof, 456. 
Mother darksome, Mother dread, 462. 
My hawk is tired of perch and hood, 206. 
My wayward fate I needs must plain, 404. 

Night and morning were at meeting, 421. 
Norman saw on English oak, 450. 
Not faster yonder rowers' might, 164 
November's hail-cloud drifts away, 449. 
November's sky is chill and drear, 88. 

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 250. 

U, dread was the time, and more dreadful the 

omen, 409. 
O for a glance of that gay Muse's eye, 431. 
U tor the voice of that wild horn, 438. 
U hone a rie' ! O hone a rie' ! 11. 

4^5^^ *^®®' ^y babie, thy sire was a knight, 

O, lady, twine no wreath for me, 266. 

O listen, listen, ladies gay ! 78. 

O, lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 401. 



^400^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^ the fair lake of Toro, 

O Maid of Isla from the clifp, 467. 

O, open the door, some pity to show, 400 

U say not, my love, with that mortified air, 404. 
U sleep ye sound. Sir James,' she said, 440. 

U, tell me. Harper, wherefore flow, 409. 
wTm? 8 ^^ ^^ "^^^^^ *^''''' *^^ woodland so 

O, will ye hear a mirthful bourd ? 29. 

U, will you hear a knightly tale of old Bohe- 
mian day, 444. 

Of all the birds on bush or tree, 459. 

J0T474 ^^^ ^n^land, it was not thought 

Oh, I 'm come to the Low Country, 481. 
130^^^^^ Lochinvar is come out of the west, 

On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun, 467. 

Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to 
restj, TbJLo. 

Once again, — but how changed since my wan- 
derings began, 425. 

^200'^^^'^ still preaches that Peter and Poule, 

Our work is over — over now, 441. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 427. 
Plain as her native dignity of mind, 447 
Poor sinners whom the snake deceives, *467. 
I roud Maisie is in the wood, 441. 

Quake to your foundation deep, 310. 

Rash adventurer, bear thee back, 306. 

Rash thy deed, 456. 

Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, 399. 

Saint Magnus control thee, 464. 

See the treasures Merlin piled, 307. 

'She may be fair,' he sang, ' but yet,' 383. 

402 ^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^* ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ *^® *^^^®» 
So^sung the old bard in the grief of his heart, 

Soft spread the southern summer night, 420 

boldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 162. 

boldier, wake ! the day is peeping, 476. 

Son of a witch, 480. 

Son of Honor, theme of story, 309. 

Staffa sprung from high Macdonald, 410. 

Stern eagle of the far Northwest, 459. 

Summer eve is gone and past, 264. 

Sweet shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, 

Take these flowers which, purple waving, 8. 

lake thou no scorn, 453. 

That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 80. 

^at s right, friend — drive the gaitlings back, 

47^. 

The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, 14. 
ine iiruid Urien had daughters seven, 388. 
rru t^^^^^ ^* Glenmore is drear, 37. 
I he heath this night must be my bed. 179. 
Ihe herring loves the merry moon-light, 429. 
Ihe knight 's to the mountain, 414. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



497 



The last of our steers on the board has been 

spread, 484. 
The Minstrel came once more to view, 203. 
The monk must arise when the matins riner, 

448. 
The moon is in her summer glow, 231. 
The moon 's on the lake and the mist 's on the 
^^ brae, 428. 

The news has flown frae mouth to mouth, 469. 
The Pope he was saying the high, high mass, 17. 
The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, 181. 
The sages — for authority, pray, look, 473. 
The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear, 269. 
The sun is rising dimly red, 460. 
The sun upon the lake is low, 484. 
The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 437. 
The violet in her greenwood bower, 8. 
The way was long, the wind was cold, 46. 
The Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn, 5. 
There came three merry men from south, west, 

and north, 452. 
There is a mood of mind we all have known, 

370. ^ 
There is mist on the mountain, and night on the 

vale, 416. 
There's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald wood, 

441. 
They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, 187. 
This is the day when the fairy kind, 456. 
Thou so needful, yet so dread, 465. 
Thou who seek'st mj"^ fountain lone, 458. 
Though right be aft put down by strength, 418. 
Thrice to the holly brake, 455. 
Thy craven fear my truth accused, 455. 
Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright, 430. 
'Tis sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh, 

405. 
To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies, 9. 
To the Lords of Convention 't was Claver'se 

who spoke, 485. 
To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale, 484. 
Traquair has ridden up Chapel-hope, 31. 
True Thomas sat on Huntlie bank, 33. 
'T was a Mar^chal of France, and he fain would 

honor gain, 408. 
'T was All-souls' eve, and Surrey's heart beat 

high, 77. 
'T was near the fair city of Benevent, 478. 
'T was when among our linden-trees, 442. 
Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 425. 



Up rose the sun o'er moor and mead, 482. 
Viewless Essence, thin and bare, 482. 

Wake, Maid of Lorn ! the moments fly, 315. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 403. 

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, 425. 

We are bound to drive the bullocks, 418. 

We love the shrill trumpet, we love the drum's 
rattle, 485. 

Welcome, grave stranger, to our green retreats, 
406. 

What brave chief shall head the forces, 478. 

What did ye wi' the bridal ring, 441. 

What makes the troopers' frozen courage mus- 
ter, 11. 

Wheel the wild dance, 422. 

When friends are met o'er merry cheer, 486. 

When fruitful Clydesdale's apple bowers, 22. 

When Israel of the Lord beloved, 451. 

When princely Hamilton's abode, 2(). 

When the fight of grace is fought, 441. 

When the gledd's in the blue cloud, 440. 

When the heathen trumpet's clang, 4IiS. 

When the last Laird of Kavenswood to Ravens- 
wood shall ride, 448. 

When the lone pilgrim views afar, 4'M]. 

When the tempest 's at the loudest, 485. 

Whence the brooch of burning gold, 322. 

Where corpse-light, 4(55. 

Where shall the lover rest, 110. 

Whet the bright steel, 451. 

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and 
gray, 2()8. 

Why sit'st thou by that ruined hall, 429. 

' Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? ' 42(). 

Widowed wife and wedded maid, 477. 

With my curtch on my foot, and my shoo on 
my hand, 441. 

Within that awful volume lies, 455. 

Woman's faith and woman's trust, 47(>. 

Yes, thou mayst sigh, 482. 

You have summoned me once, you have sum- 
moned me twice, 458. 

Young men will love tlieo more fair and more 
fast, 415. 

Your suppliant, by name, 4(>S. 

Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou 
call me ? 455. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



[The Titles of Major Works and General Divisions are set in small capitals] 



* Admire not that I gained/ 485. 
Albert Graeme's Song, 76. 

Alexandre, M., the celebrated Ventriloquist, 

Lines addressed to, 474. 
Alice Brand, 184. 
AUen-a-Dale, 254. 

* An hour with thee,' 480. 
Ancient Gaelic Melody, 448. 

' And did ye not hear of a mirth befell,' 413. 
Anne of Geierstein, verses from, 483. 
Answer to Introductory Epistle, 453. 
Antiquary, The, verses from, 429. 
Appeal, The, Epilogue to, 439. 

* As lords their laborers' hire delay,' 474. 
Avenel, Mary, To, 458. 

Ballads : — 

Alice Brand, 184. 

' And whither would you lead me then,' 270. 

Battle of Sempach, The, 442. 

Bothwell Castle, 22. 

Cadyow Castle, 26. 

Castle of the Seven Shields, The, 388. 

Christie's Will, 30. 

Erl-King, The, 8. 

Eve of St. John, The, 14. 

Fire-King, The, 19. 

Frederick and Alice, 25, 

Glenfinlas, 11. 

Gray Brother, The, 17. 

Noble Moringer, The, 444. 

Reiver's Wedding, The, 29. 

Shepherd's Tale, The, 23. 

* The herring loves the merry moon-light,' 
429. 

Thomas the Rhymer, 32. 

Wild Huntsman, The, 5. 

William and Helen, 1. 
Ballads from the German of Burger, 

Two, 1. 
Bannatyne Club, The, 471. 
Bard's Incantation, The, 37. 
Barefooted Friar, The, 450. 
Battle of Bear an Dnine, 203. 
Battle of Sempach, The, 442. 
Betrothed, The, songs from, 476. 
Black Knight and Wamba, The, 452. 
Bloody Vest, The, 478. 
Boat Song, 168. 
Bold Dragoon, The, 408. 
Bonny Dundee, 485. 
Border Song, 453. 
Bothwell Castle, 22. 
Bridal of Triermain, The, 283. 
Bride of Lammermoor, The, songs from, 448. 
Brooch of Lorn, The, 322. 
Bryce Snailsfoot's Advertisement, 467. 



Buccleuch, Duke of. To his Grace the, 411. 
Burger, Two Ballads from the German 

OF, 1. 
' But follow, follow me,' 418. 
*By pathless march, by greenwood tree,' 480. 

Cadyow Castle, 26. 

' Canny moment, lucky fit,' 424. 

' Carle, now the king 's come,' 469. 

Castle of the Seven Shields, The, 388. 

Catch of Cowley's altered, A, 473. 

Cavalier, The, 268. 

Cheviot, 25. 

Christie's Will, 30. 

Chronicles of the Canongate, verses from, 481. 

Cleveland's Songs, 464. 

Coronach, 177. 

Coronach, Lord Ronald's, 11. 

County Guy, 472. 

Crusader's Return, The, 449. 

Cypress Wreath, The, 266. 



Dance of Death, The, 421. 

' Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still,' 477. 

' Dark shall be light,' 425. 

Dead, Hymn for the, 80. 

Death Chant, 481. 

Death of Don Pedro, The, 487. 

Death of Keeldar, The, 482. 

De Wilton's History, 141. 

' Donald Caird 's Come Again,' 440. 

Don Roderick, The Vision of, 208. 

Doom of Devorgoil, The, songs from, 484. 

Dying Bard, The, 399. 



I 



Early Ballads and Lyrics, 7. 

Edward the Black Prince, To the Memory of^ 

438. 
Epilogue ('The sages — for authority, pray, 

look'), 473. 
Epilogue to ' The Appeal,' 439. 
Epilogue to the Drama founded on ' Saint Ro- 

nan's Well,' 472. 
Epitaph designed for a monument in Lichfield 

Cathedral, 405. 
Epitaph C Heir lyeth John o' ye Girnell'), 429. 
Epitaph on Balfour of Burley, 430, 
Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine, 447. 
Erl-King, The, 8. 
Eve of St. John, The, 14. 

Fair Maid of Perth, The, verses from, 481. 
' Family Legend, The,' Prologue to, 405. 
Farewell, The, 269. 
Farewell to Mackenzie, 419. 
Farewell to the Muse, 467. 
Field of Waterloo, The, 362. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



499 



Fire-King, The, 19. 

Fishermen's Song, The, 463, 

Fitztraver's Song, 77. 

Flora Maclvor's Song, 416. 

' For a' That an' a' That,' 418. 

Foray, The, 484. 

Fording the River, 453. 

Fortune, Lines on, 487. 

Fortunes of Nigel, The, lines from, 468. 

Frederick and Alice, 25. 

Funeral Hymn, 453. 

Gaelic Melody, Ancient, 448. 

Glee for King Charles, 480. 

Glee-Maiden, Song of the, 482. 

Glencoe, On the Massacre of, 409. 

Glendinning, Edward, To, 458. 

Glenfinlas, 11. 

Goetz von Berlichingen, Song from, 9. 

Goldthred's Song, 459. 

Gray Brother, The, 17. 

Guy Mannering, songs from, 424. 

Halbert, To, 455, 456. 

Halbert's Incantation, 455. 

Halcro and Noma, 462. 

Halcro's Song, 460. 

Halcro's Verses, 464. 

Harold's Song, 78. 

Harold Harfager's Song, 460. 

Harold the Dauntless, 369. 

Harp, The, 267. 

'He came, but valor had so fired his eye,' 420. 

Health to Lord Melville, 402. 

Heart of Midlothian, The, songs from, 440. 

Hellvellyn, 37. 

* Hie away, hie away,' 414. 
' Hither we come,' 487. 
Host's Tale, The, 112. 

' Hour with Thee, An,' 480. 

' House of Aspen, The,' songs from, 10. 

Hunting Song, 403. 

Hymns : — 

Funeral, 453. 

for the Dead, 80. 

Rebecca's, 451. 
Hymn to the Virgin, 180. 

' I asked of my harp,' 476. 
Imitation (of the Farewell to Mackenzie), 419. 
Imprisoned Huntsman, Lay of the, 2{)(). 
Inscription for the Monument of the Rev 

George Scott, 484. 
Invocation, 380. 
' It chanced that Cupid on a season,' 423. 

* It 's up Glembarclian's braes I gaed,' 414. 
Ivanhoe, verses from, 449. 

Jock of llazeldean, 426. 

Kenilworth, song from, 459. 
Kemble's, Mr., Farewell Address, 436. 

Lady of the Lake, The, 152. 

Lady, To a, 8. 

li anient, 205. 

' Late, when the autumn evening fell,' 41 1. 



Lay of Poor Louise, The, 481. 

Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman, 206. 

Lay of the Last Mlnstrel, The, 39. 

Legend of Montrose, A, songs from, 448. 

Letter in verse, 410. 

Lines : addressed to M. Alexandre the cele- 
brated ventriloquist, 474 ; addressed to Ran- 
ald Macdonald, Esq., of Staffa, 410 ; on 
Fortune, 487; to Sir Cuthbert Sharp, 480; 
written for Miss Smith, 436. 

Lochinvar, 130. 

Lockhart, Esq., J. G., To, 474. 

' Look not thou on beauty's charming,' 448. 

Lord of the Isles, The, 312. 

Lord Ronald's Coronach, 11. 

Lullaby of an Infant Chief, 425. 

Lyulph's Tale, 290. 

Macdonald, Ronald, Esq., of Staffa. Lines ad- 
dressed to, 410. 
MacGregor's Gathering, 428. 
Mackenzie, Farewell to, 419. 
Mackrimmon's Lament, 439. 
Madge Wildfire's Songs, 440. 
Maid of Isla, The, 4iu. 
Maid of Neidpath, The, 401. 
Maid of Toro, The, 4(X). 
Marmion, 81. 

Massacre of Glencoe, On the, 409. 
Melville, Lord, Health to, 402. 
Mermaids and Mermen, Song of the, 461. 
Miscellaneous Poems, 3i)8. 
Monastery, The, verses from, 453. 
Monks of Bangor's March, The, 4^W. 
Moon, Song to the, 2;i9. 
Mortham's History, 259. 

Nigel's Initiation at Whitefriars, 468. 

Noble Moringer, The, 444. 

Nora's Vow, 427. 

Norman Horse-Shoe, The, 39*.>. 

' Norman saw on English Oak,' 450. 

Noma's Incantations, 4<»5. The same, at the 

meeting witli Minn.i, 465. 
Noma's Verses, 461. 

Oak Tree, To an, 417. 

Old Mortality, verses from, 4.'>0. 

On Ettrick t\)rest's Mountains Dun, 4<)7. 

On the Massacre of (ilencoe, 409. 

Orphan Maid, The, 449. 

Palmer The, 400. 
Pharos Loquitur, 410. 
Pibroch of Donald Dhu, 427. 
Pirate, The, verses from, 459. 
Poacher, The, 4(M>. 
Pnstscrii)tuni, 412. 

Prologue to Misa Haillie's Play of ' The Family 
Legend,' 405. 

Quest of Sultftun Solimaun, The, 431. 

Rrbocca's Hymn, 451. 
Ivedgaunth't, viMses from, 473. 
Reiv(^r's Wedding, The. 29. 
Resolve, The, 404. 



Soo 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Return to Ulster, The, 425. 


House of Aspen, The, songs from, 10. 


Rhein-Wein Lied, 11. 


Hunting Song, 403. 


Rob Roy, song from, 438. 


' I asked of my harp,' 476. 


ROKEBY, 226. 


' 111 fares the bark with tackle riven,' 383. 


Romance of Dunois, 423. 


* It 's up Glembarchan's braes I gaed,' 414. 




' Joy to the victors, the sons of old Aspen,' 


Saint Cloud, 420. 


10. 


St. Swithin's Chair, 415. 


Lament, 205. 


Scott, Rev. George, Inscription for the Monu- 


Lament, Mackrimmon's, 439. 


ment of, 484. 


Lay of Poor Louise, The, 481. 


Search after Happiness, The, 431. 


Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman, 206. 


Secret Tribunal, The, 483. 


Lochinvar, Lady Heron's Song, 130. 


Sempach, The Battle of, 442. 


[ Look not thou on beauty's charming,' 448. 


Sharp, Sir Cuthbert, Lines to, 480. 


' Lord William was born in gilded bower,' 


Shepherd's Tale, The, 23. 

Sir David Lindesay's Tale, 120. 


377. 


LuUaby of an Infant Chief, 425. 


Smith, Miss, Lines written for, 436. 


Macgregor's Gathering, 428. 


' Soldier, wake ! ' 476. 


Madge Wildfire's, 440. 


Soldier's Song, 200. 


MaidofIsla,The, 467. 


*Sonof a Witch,'480. 


Maid of Neidpath, The, 401. 


Songs : — 


Maid of Toro, The, 400. 


' A weary lot is thine, fair maid,' 253. 


Mermaids and Mermen, of the, 461. 


* Admire not that I gained the prize, '485. 


Monks of Bangor's March, The, 438. 


Albert Graeme's, 76. 


Moon, To the, 239. 


AUen-a-Dale, 254. 


Nora's Vow, 427. 


Ancient Gaelic Melody, 448.^ 


* Not faster yonder rowers' might,' 164. 


' And did ye not hear of a mirth befell,' 413. 
Battle of Beal' an Duine, 203. 


* 0, Brignall banks are wild and fair,' 250. 


* for the voice of that wild horn,' 438. 


Black Knight and Wamba, The, 452. 


* 0, say not, my love, with that mortified 


Boat Song, 168. 


air,' 404. 


Bold Dragoon, The, 408. 


Old Song, 481. 

On the Lifting of the Banner of the House 


Bonny Dundee, 485. 


Border Song, 453. 


of Buccleuch, 424. 


Brooch of Lorn, The, 322. 


Orphan Maid, The, 449. 


' But follow, follow me,' 418. 


Palmer, The, 400. 


* Canny moment, lucky fit,' 424. 


Pibroch of Donald Dhu, 427. 


Catch of Cowley's altered. A, 473. 


' Quake to your foundation deep,' 310. 


Cavalier, The, 268. 


' Rash adventurer, bear thee back,' 306. 


Cleveland's, 464. 


Rhein-Wein Lied, 11. 


Coronach, 177. 


St. Swithin's Chair, 415. 


County Guy, 472. 


' See the treasure Merlin piled,' 307. 


Cypress Wreath, The, 266. 


* She may be fair,' he sang, ' but yet,' 383. 


* Dark shall be light,' 425. 


* Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er,' 162. 


* Donald Caird's Come Again,' 440. 


* Soldier, wake ! ' 476. 


Doom of Devorgoil, The, songs from, 484. 


Soldier's, 200. 


Farewell, The, 269. 


'Son of Honor, theme of story,' 309. 


Farewell to Mackenzie, 419. 


' Summer eve is gone and past,' 264. 


Fishermen's, The, 463. 


Sun upon the Lake, The, 484. 


Fitztraver's, 77. 


Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, The, 437. 


Flora Maclvor's, 416. 


* Sweet shone the sun on the fair lake of 


' For a' That an' a' That,' 418. 


Toro,' 10. 


For the Anniversary of the Pitt Club of 


Tempest, Song of the, 459. 


Scotland, 409. 


* The heath this night must be my bed,' 


Glee for King Charles, 480. 


179. 


Glee-Maiden's, 482. 


* The knight 's to the mountain,' 414. 


* God protect brave Alexander,' 428. 


*The monk must arise when the matins 


Goetz von Berlichingen, from, 9. 


ring,' 448. 


Goldthred's, 459. 


' They bid me sleep, they bid me pray,' 187. 


Halcro's, 460. 


' Twist ye, twine ye ! even so,' 425. 


Harold's, 78. 

Harold Harfager's, 460. 


* Wake, Maid of Lorn,' 315. 


Wandering Willie, 401. 


Harp, The, 267. 


War-Song, 450. 


* Hawk and osprey screamed for joy,' 382. 


War-Song of Lachlan, 420. 


Health to Lord Melville, 402. 


War-Song of the Royal Edinburgh Light 


* Hie away, hie away,' 414. 
Highland Widow, The, from, 481. 

• Hither we come,' 487. 


Dragoons, 9. 


'Wasted, weary, wherefore stay,' 425. 


' We are bound to drive the bullocks,' 418. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



5°i 



* We love the shrill trumpet,' 485. 

* Wheel the wild dance,' 422. 
' When friends are met,' 486. 

* When the last Laird of Ravenswood to 

Ravenswood shall ride,' 448. 
' When the tempest,' 485. 

* Where shall the lover rest,' 110. 
White Lady of Avenel, of the, 453. 

* Widowed wife and wedded maid,' 477. 
Woman's Faith, 476. 

* Young men will love thee more fair and 

more fast ! ' 415. 
Sun upon the Lake, The, 484. 
Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, The, 437. 

Talisman, The, verses from, 477. 
Tempest, Song of the, 459. 
' The herring loves the merry moon-light,' 
429. 

* The Knight 's to the mountain,' 414. 

*The monk must arise when the matins ring,' 

448. 
Thomas the Rhymer, 32. 

* Thou, so needful, yet so dread,' 465, 
To a Lady, 8. 

To an Oak Tree, 417. 

To Edward Glendinning, 458. 

To Halbert (The White Maid of Avenel), 455. 

To his Grace the Duke of Buccleuch, 411. 

To J. G. Lockhart, Esq., 474. 

To Mary Avenel, 458. 

To the Memory of Edward the Black Prince, 

438. 
To the Sub-Prior, 454. 
Triermain, The Bridal of, 283. 
Troubadour, The, 423. 



' Twist ye, twine ye! even so,' 425, 

Verses found, with a lock of hair, in Both well's 

pocket-book, 4130. 
Verses sung at the dinner to the Grand-duke 

Nicholas, 428. 
Violet, The, 7. 
Virgin, Hymn to the, 180. 
Vision of Don Roderick, The, 208. 

Wandering Willie, 401. 
War-Song, 450. 
War-Song of Lachlan, 420. 
War-Song of the Royal Edinburgh Light Dra- 
goons, 9. 

* Wasted, weary, wherefore stay,' 425. 
Waterloo, The Field of, 3()2. 
Waverley, songs and verses from, 413, 

' We are bound to drive the bullocks,' 418. 

' We love the shrill trumpet,' 485, 

' What brave chief shall head the forces,' 477. 

' When friends are met,' 486. 

' When the last Laird of Ravenswood to Ravens' 

wood shall ride,' 448. 
' When the tempest,' 485. 
White Lady's Farewell, The, 4.58. 
White Lady of Avenel, Songs of the, 453. 
Why sit'st thou by that ruined hall,' 429. 
' Widowed wife and wedded maid,' 477. 
Wild Huntsman, The, 5. 
William and Helen, 1, 
Woman's Faith, 476. 
Woodstock, verses from, 480, 

* Young men will love thee more fair and more 

fast,' 415. 



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